Marcel
by nikkithedead
Summary: A back story to an OC in the story Recovery.
1. Marcel

**Marcel**

Marcel had always known he liked boys, but he didn't know the word for it until he was about 13 and his Dad was flipping through the channels on tv. He'd come across some fashion show, where the male host was critiquing some ladies outfit.

"Goddamned queerfags…" He'd mumbled, changing channels. Curious, Marcel had asked what that meant, and his father had explained. His description may have been less than accurate, but Marcel recognized that that's exactly what he was.

His mother's job had them moving every few years, and while he'd grown up in a small town (he was probably the resident queerfag) when he was 14 and starting highschool, they'd moved to Colombus.

It had taken him a while to make friends, but upon being handed a flyer advertising the schools Gay-Straight-Alliance, it quickly became apparent who he should be friends with. Not all the other queerfags in the school were part of it, but they did all seem to be friends with each other. They were friendly to him from the start, and he began sitting with them at lunch.

However, it then also became apparent that he was very different from his new queerfag friends. They had highlights in their hair, and wore skinny jeans and cared about whether or not Ashton Kutcher was cheating on Demi Moore with a waitress from the Keg. He felt a little disconnected at first, but they'd helped him. They taught him how to dress, and how to act and what to say. They taught him how to do his hair, and what magazines to read, and what boys to flirt with. They taught him _how _to flirt. And kiss. They took him to clubs and parties, where he could practice said flirting and kissing skills. Apparently, he was good at it.

And then sometimes he wasn't just kissing and flirting at the clubs and parties, sometimes he was on his knees in the bathroom too. They hadn't taught him blowjobs, but he got the hang of them pretty quickly. He'd read a book once where a guy had been forced into giving a blow job he didn't want to give. The guy'd said after the fact that it wasn't horrible, but it wasn't love. Marcel thought that was a perfect way to describe what he was doing. It wasn't horrible, but it wasn't love.

Maybe he thought if he did it enough, one day it would be love..maybe he he was just doing what his Dad had told him queerfags did. Either way, he just kept doing it.

Summer after 10th grade, he'd been at a party one night with his friend Shane. They'd both gotten too drunk, and the next morning Marcel woke up in terrible pain, next to Shane in bed. Shane had grinned sloppily at him. "Whoops."

And that was sex. Whoops. No big though. Except for the pain…

Worse then the pain was the fact that he'd had sex, and couldn't even remember it. Big deal or no, he wanted to know what it was like, at least. So he'd gone to a club, and flirted and kissed his way back into the bathroom he'd knelt down in so many times before.

Whoops.

It wasn't horrible, but it wasn't love.

He'd only done it a few times after that, mostly when he was drunk or in a shitty mood. He liked the other things better though, and decided he'd focus more on them. He wanted to be good at them, too. So he practiced on his friends. It was like a game, shoving their dicks down his throat until he gagged and his eyes teared, knowing that eventually he'd stop gagging. He learned the right places to suck and lick and stroke, and get feed back from them.

_"…Oh fuck Marcel, shit you're so fucking good at that…"_

_"…Uh, oh faster go faster I need more ohh…" _

_"…So good, oh god yes…." _

It was nice actually. From the moment he went down on them to the second they came in his mouth, it was like an endless stream of compliments.

Eventually they'd figured out what he was doing. Apprently each of them had thought they'd had some sort of exclusive friends with benefits type thing going with him. They'd been pissed when they'd learned he was actually sucking all of them off.

If it hadn't happened right after, Marcel would have gone to them and apologized. He would have tearfully broken down, and confessed that he didn't really feel like he fit in with them. He didn't give a fuck about fashion, he hated skinny jeans. He liked books, and bad tv shows he could make fun of, and poetry. He'd just wanted to fit in with them, and belong. He'd gone too far.

If it hadn't happened, his friends would have hugged him and told him they didn't care if he didn't like fashion; they loved him anyways. They would have cried and told him they were sorry they didn't do anything sooner. They would have told him how they'd always been jealous of how smart he was, and maybe he could recommended some books for them to read. They didn't read enough. He would have cried harder, and hugged them back.

But it had happened.

He'd been lonely, and pissed off. He'd gone to a club. A good looking guy in a black blazer and cowboy boots had started flirting with him. He was older, but who cared? They guy hadn't even bought him a drink. He'd just asked him if he'd wanted to get out of there.

Marcel had gone with him on his own.

Whoops.


	2. Lucky

**A/N: This is a bit of background on what happened to Marcel when he was taken. It's short...but bad. **

**Lucky**

The first two weeks are the worst. That might seem strange, because they barely touch you then, but they're the worst. Because even though they haven't really touched you yet, you know they're going to.

They told you they're going to, and you believe them. You can see it in their eyes. They're going to.

But not yet.

The waiting. That's what's the worst. You try to prepare yourself for it. You try to tell yourself to think of it like it's already happened. Try to resign yourself.

But you can't. Not really.

The fact is, right up until it happens, there's always some part of you that thinks maybe you can still get out of it. Right up until there's a hard red dick up your ass, some sad part of you still expects the police to barge through the door and shoot the bad guy. Any second now.

You don't admit the truth to yourself- can't admit it, until it's already happening.

Not a split second before.

Even as those rough, calloused hands begin to move over your body, some part of you still thinks you can be saved. Maybe something, anything will happen. Something has to happen.

Those hands, the ones that feel like sandpaper against your chilled skin, they're forcing you to your knees. You're crying and whining. But still...maybe they're will be an earth quake. They'll be distracted, you can escape.

Your eyelids are shut tight, and tears are squelching out from beneath them. You hear a zipper go down, somewhere close to your ears.

It might not be to late...maybe if you're lucky, the world will end.

There's something wet, and foul smelling pressing against your lips. His dick.

Maybe if you're lucky, you'll die.

The first time it happens, it's the big guy that does it. The 6 foot 5 guy in the baseball cap you'll eventually come to know as Howie.

The first time, it's just like what you'd expect to see in some fucked up X-rated rape-sploitation film from the 80's; all blood and semen, ripping and pleading.

He takes his time though, getting around to the actual brass tacks of the matter. Takes his time getting to know your body, the curve of your spine and the wet inside of your blubbering mouth.

Even then, you still think maybe it's not too late.

Maybe if you're lucky, you'll choke to death on his dick.

Maybe if you're lucky, you'll drown in his semen.

It's the pathetic undoing of the human condition, how long you can hold out hope for your own survival.

Even when it's all over, and the matter of your very first rape has been dealt with, that sad, sad bubble of hope is still there. Unlike your cherry, it takes more than one good, hard fuck to pop it.

Even as you're both lying there, covered in each other's fluids (your blood, his cum) and he leans over to place a wet, runny kiss against your whimpering lips, it refuses to die. Even as you taste the familar flavours mingled against his lips (your blood, his cum) it won't give the fuck up.

Maybe if you're lucky, you won't have to do it again.

Maybe if you're lucky, that was the last blood/semen cocktail you'll ever have kissed against you.

Maybe if you're lucky, it's over now.

You're not lucky.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I've been reading a lot of Chuck Palahnuik lately...can you tell?**


	3. Damage

**A/N: This is really getting into a lot more of what happened to him. It's less stylized then the previous chapters, but has a lot more information.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong><strong>**Damage**

At first, they didn't even bother to keep him tied up. He was just left alone in a cold room, free to move about as he pleased. Well, when they weren't using him, that is. The ropes came out after his first escape attempt.

There was a window in the room he was in. It was boarded up, and well, but after a few days of wiggling, the nails came undone. Unfortunately, it was boarded up on the other side too, and he was still wiggling away at _those _boards when he caught him. The one who caught him was a muscular, fairly stupid man who inexplicably went by the name "Club." When he saw Marcel at the window, he laughed. And not just a small chuckle either. His laughter was the loud, gut splitting side holding kind. Marcel thought he might have even wiped a tear from his eye, as though his escaping was just _too_ hilarious. After the laughter stopped, Club simply pulled him away from where he was cowering by the window, yanking him back by his hair and throwing him over to the creaky bed.

"You're real cute, you know that Marcey?" Club said, unbuttoning his jeans as he came towards him. Marcel scrambled back on the bed, trying to get away from him but Club was already there, and he yanked him back once more and threw him down against the dirty sheets.

"Please, _please_ don't do this." Marcel whimpered. He hated that, how he begged and pleaded with them. He sounded so pathetic. Every time they raped him, he always swore afterwards that he was done begging and pleading. But when the next time came around, he always did. He couldn't help it. No matter how often they did it there was always that terrified voice in his head shrieking "no no, not again. Not this time, please no."

But they never listened. And no matter how he fought or struggled, screamed and whined, they never stopped. They never slowed. They never even paused.

This time was no different (it never was). Club didn't bat an eyelash as he ripped his pants down and pried his legs apart. He didn't bother stretching him either, just held his neck down against the bed until he was done. Then he zipped himself up, and left Marcel alone to curl up in a ball and cry.

The next time he tried to escape, he'd been with them for a little over a month. By that time, he'd gotten to know them all pretty well. There were 6 of them in total, and by now he could tell that they'd known each other for a good long while. They'd probably been doing this for a while, too. There was a very structured group dynamic between them, but Marcel was still trying to figure out exactly what that was.

The easiest of them to figure out, who they were, what they wanted and where they fit into the group- were Club and a shaggy haired blond named Lloyd. They were strong, and tough, but simple. All they wanted from him was to get in, get off and get out. Other then that, they didn't concern themselves with him. As far as he could tell, they were the "henchmen" of the group.

Slightly more difficult was Howie, who seemed to want more from him then just getting off. He took his time with him, caressing him, kissing him and moving his hands all over him. He was rough, but not particularly brutal. Afterwards he always held him, letting him sob pathetically against his wide chest until he fell asleep.

Next was Stevie, who Marcel had to admit was his favourite (for a few reasons). The first being that the man had yet to fuck him, in any way shape or form. At first, he'd thought Stevie might have once been in the same position he was now- a captive. He'd heard about stuff like that happening- victims growing attached to their captors, and integrating into their group. It was fucked up, but he knew it could happen.

Of all of them, Stevie was the only one who seemed outwardly gay. That was another reason Marcel liked him. He reminded him of his friends. His voice was high and breathy like them, and he definitely dressed in a way that they would have approved of.

So far the only times Stevie approached him were to bring him food, or clean him up after one of them had gotten particularly rough with him.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance as he dressed his wounds and lay him back down on the dirty bed. "Men." He'd mumbled, rolling his eyes in disdain. "Such barbarians." He'd smiled at him and kissed him on the forehead before leaving. Marcel had almost managed to smile back.

Eventually, he'd determined that no Stevie had never been in the position he was in now. Simply from the way he interacted with the rest of the group- scolded them and argued, he could tell Stevie was their equal, not their prisoner. He seemed to have a fair amount of control over them as well.

The roughest of them was an angry looking man named Ace. He wasn't as big as Howie, nor was he as strong as Club or Lloyd, but usually when Stevie had to come bandage him up it was something Ace had done to him.

Ace always took the time to slap him around a bit before he raped him, and a lot of the times, during as well.

Once, he'd decided he had a problem with his "faggy hairdo" and he'd taken a pair of scissors and chopped most of it off. His hair had been fairly long, his bangs being longer then the rest of his hair and sweeping down across his face. Ace had gotten rid of most of his bangs, and almost all of the rest of it before he'd decided that he'd de-faggified him enough, and got around to raping him again.

Stevie had not been pleased, and had muttered angrily under his breath while he attempted to fix the hack job Ace had done. In the end all he'd been able to do was even out his bangs, which now just came to above his eyebrows, and neaten up the rest of his head.

It was a plain, average look and Marcel actually kind of loved it. It wasn't styled or fancy, it was just a regular haircut. He hadn't had one of those since he was 14.

He would have thanked Ace, if he hadn't been busy begging him not to rape him again. He knew he shouldn't, but once again, he just couldn't help it. But while the others just ignored his screams and pleas, they seemed to actively annoy Ace. And Ace tended to express his annoyance though his fists.

"Doesn't matter to me if your face is bleeding while I'm fucking it." He'd hissed once. That wasn't an expression either, a euphemism for a blow job or anything. Howie, Club and Lloyd made him give them blow-jobs; Ace fucked his face.

That was the worst. He was actually relieved on the days Ace chose to stick it up his ass instead. He was always sure the times it was down his throat were going to kill him. It was terrifying.

As far as group dynamic went, Ace seemed to be second in command. Still, for all his swearing and face fucking, for all his insults and degradations, Ace will still only his second-most-hated as well. The leader of the group and the one he harboured the most hatred for was Jack.

Jack was the one who'd flirted with him at the club, and taken him away in his big blue van. Jack, with his movie-star good looks and clean cut clothes. He was the worst, by far.

He was the worst, because he was the only one who took the time to make it feel good. Besides Howie, he was the only one who bothered to stretch him first, and gave him time to adjust to him. He went slowly, and was attentive. So attentive, that he was the first one to point out to Marcel something he'd never even considered about himself.

"You don't really get off from just being penetrated, huh?" He'd asked one day. He was in the process of undressing him, something he was fond of doing slowly, and Marcel was so shocked at the question that he paused in his whimpering to think about it.

"No. Not really." He'd admitted quietly. Jack gave him a small smile, and continued removing his clothes.

Every time after that, he'd always stroked him softly as he fucked him. He did everything he could to make sure Marcel got off too, and he hated him for it. Hated him for making it feel good. At least with the others, the lines were clear. He knew how they thought of him and he knew how to think of them. Nothing was clear with Jack.

When the lines began to blur, it was Jacks fault.

So because he'd been with them long enough to get to know them, he could now recognize how lucky he'd been the first time around, when it was Club who'd caught him escaping. This time around, he wasn't so lucky.

Ace caught him.

* * *

><p>His wrists were sore and bleeding, and he was pretty sure they were going to get an infection if he didn't do something about them soon...but the ropes were loose enough now, loose enough to slip out of. The pain was worth it.<p>

It was late at night this time, but he didn't have much of a plan beyond getting out of his room, and hopefully navigating his way to some sort of exit.

Maybe it was a bad idea, stumbling around without any idea of what he was going to do, but having been with them for over a month now, his state of mind was miles away from rational, and much more situated in hopeless desperation.

His back was killing him, the result of spending the last few weeks tied down to a creaky bed with springs poking out. They weren't great about feeding him either, and the clawing feeling in his gut was becoming unbearable. He had cuts and bruises all over his body, not to mention that constant agony radiating from his ass. Stevie had told him he had an infection there, and he'd been coming in every day for the past few weeks to apply some sort of cream. It might have helped if the others had ever given him enough time to heal properly.

So no, he didn't really have a plan. He hadn't thought about where he was going to go or what he was going to do. All he was thinking about was how badly he wanted to be home. He wanted to see his father again, and be pulled into one of his back-breaking hugs. He wanted to apologize to him, tell him he was so _so _sorry for everything he'd done and said. He would tell him he was sorry he'd yelled at him, and how it would no longer matter that he was a queerfag because he never wanted to have sex ever again. All he wanted to do was hide away in his room, lie underneath 10 layers of warm, soft blankets and do nothing but cry for the rest of his life.

He promised he would be good from now on. If he got out, he promised he would stop acting like such a fag all the time. He was going to dress how _he _wanted to dress, and he would act more like how his Dad thought he should.

He would go to church and shit, and apologize to God for all those dicks he'd sucked and whatever else he'd done to deserve this. And he'd mean it too. He really was sorry. He was so so sorry and he just wanted to go home.

Unfortunately, all of that- his dad and his hugs, his room and it's nice warm bed, church and god- it all shattered in front of him when he opened his door to an ear-splitting crashing sound.

Cans. They'd put a stack of cans in front of his door. Cans in front of his door meant he would never see his Dad or God ever again.

It was pathetic.

Standing frozen in the doorway, he looked out at the house he was in and saw his room was directly across from what looked like the front door.

He bolted, trying for one more last ditch please-God-let-me-get-out attempt for freedom.

His last thought, as he felt Ace yanking him back by the torn collar of his shirt was something along the lines of "Fuck you, god."

After that, any thoughts he had most revolved around pain, fear, and being really fucking sorry.

He was so, so sorry.

"The fuck do you think you're going, you fucking fag piece of shit?" Ace growled, pulling him back into his room by what was left of his hair. He slammed him against the wall, his cheek scraping painfully against the splintered wood. "I oughta fucking kill you for this."

"What's going on?" Marcel heard a voice behind them ask. The noise must have woken up the others. It was Jack who was speaking, but he could hear the rest of them approaching as well.

"The bitch tried escaping again." Ace growled, still pressing him firmly against the wall.

Marcel heard one of them clicking their tongues. "I _told _you to let me tie those knots." Stevie all but sang.

"I've had it up to here with his goddamned shit." Ace said, pulling him back and slamming him into the wall again to emphasize his point. His head knocked into it harder this time, and black spots starting blinking in front of his eyes. "He's not worth it. I say we get rid of him, and find someone else."

"Oh sure." Jack replied. Much to Marcel's relief, he sounded intensely sarcastic.

Though he found himself praying for death constantly, when it really came down to it, he didn't want to die. Not at all.

Then again, this wasn't really living now was it?

Ace was holding his arms roughly behind his back, and he was holding him against the wall with so much force that he was sure they were going to crash through it at any moment.

What's more, he could already feel Ace's sizeable erection pressing against his ass, yearning for a chance to rip open old wounds that had barely been given time to heal.

It was times like this he found himself wishing to be dead the most. But even now, he knew he didn't _really _want to die. He just wanted this to be over, and in theory death was a promising escape route.

But in reality, the fear he had of Ace and all the pain and humiliation he caused him was nothing compared to his fear that one day, Jack and the rest of the them would just say "whatever" and let Ace kill him.

He felt disgust and fear for Ace's cock right down in his toes, and it was still nothing compared to the incomprehensible fear he had of death.

Better the devil the devil you do know and all.

Said devil was now pressed so tightly against him he thought Ace might actually have been trying to fuck him through his worn out jeans.

Marcel tried to make himself think about anything other then the pain he was feeling just about everywhere, and the torture he knew was coming once Jack finished lecturing Ace on why it wasn't such an easy thing to just "go find someone else."

"I mean, the pain of moving alone..." He was saying.

"Yeah." Club agreed. "And I like it here. We're nice and close to a lot of good places to get food."

"I beg to differ." Stevie sneered. "Although I'm sure to _you _an A&W or Panda Express is just the height of fine dining, some of our pallets are a _bit _more refined."

"Hey." Lloyd said, sounding defensive. "His pallet is refined as hell. Unless you're implying my dick is anything less than 4 star dining."

Club laughed. "Dude, good one."

Stevie scoffed. "You know restaurants can be given up to _five _stars, right?"

"I'm a humble guy."

Marcel heard Club snicker again, and he groaned. Why couldn't they just _leave _already so they could get this over with?

"Come on," Club said, and Marcel felt his hypocritical heart sink down into his stomach. "I'm in the mood for some 5-star Lloyd Spader dining right now_._"

Marcel heard Stevie scoff again, and footsteps retreat from the room. He thought they had all left, until Jack spoke again.

"Tomorrow, I'll send Club or Lloyd out to get some chains, alright?"

"Whatever." Ace mumbled, finally pulling him away from the wall. He threw against the bed. "When I'm done with him, he won't be able to walk for a month anyhow."

"So long as you don't kill him." Jack said, closing the door behind him.

Ace rolled his eyes, before stomping over to Marcel, shaking and cowering on the bed, to make good on his promise.

* * *

><p>He was at the end of his rope. No. There was no more rope. Just chains now.<p>

As punishment for trying to escape again, they hadn't let Stevie bandage his bleeding, rope-skinned wrists for a week. They'd just slapped on the cold steel chains and let him suffer as the metal stung his skin.

They'd taken away his bed too. Now he just lay on the floor, tugging on his chains and getting closer and closer to not being able to take it anymore. No more.

Please no more.

He'd been there for over two months the day Jack came into his room (no more please no more) to have a "little chat."

He crouched down in front of where Marcel was barely existing on the floor. "This isn't working, Marcel." He said softly.

His throat closed up and he felt his shoulders begin to shake. No no no. Please no.

"They aren't getting what they want from you." Jack continued, his cold eyes not matching the soft sympathetic tone in his voice. "And every time you don't give them what they want, they get one step closer to agreeing with Ace." He raised his eyebrows, and Marcel's lips began to tremble. "Is that what you want?"

He couldn't answer. He was too tired, too scared and too hurt. He was crying to hard to do anything more then squeak.

He shook his head "no." No please.

Jack nodded. "Good. That's good. Look, it doesn't have to be like this. I promise you, if you just start cooperating, things will be better. We won't have to be as harsh with you. Howie, Club and Lloyd won't need to be nearly as rough with you during sex- I know Howie for one doesn't want to have to hurt you."

"Ace?" He asked, his voice squeaking and cracking in his throat.

Jack bit his lip. "I promise I'll talk to him. But if you cooperate, I'm sure he'll come around eventually."

Marcel swallowed sorely, and grimaced. His mouth still tasted like dried cum. Ace's, specifically.

He tried to think about what that would be like. Cooperating. Saying yes...He didn't think he could do it. He couldn't give them permission to do the thing they did. Couldn't say it was ok.

But he couldn't go on like this, either. And he couldn't die.

So where did that leave him?

"Marcel?" Jack said, looking for an answer. He didn't have one. Jack sighed and stood up. "I'll give you some time. But not much."

He left, and Marcel resumed his sobbing, although a bit more quietly. He tugged on his chains and wondered how long it was going to be before they broke him.

* * *

><p>One week. He held out for one more week. One more week, and the meaning of "can't take it anymore" had been redefined for him.<p>

Stevie was washing the crusted dirt (from lying on the floor the past two weeks) and cum off his face with a warm washcloth when he told him he was ready to cooperate. Stevie just smiled and placed a soft kiss on his lips before standing up and exiting. A moment later, Club and Lloyd came in.

"Stevie tells us you're ready to cooperate." Club said, grinning as he hauled him to his feet. He nodded, and Lloyd stepped forward and unlocked the cuffs around his wrists. "Prove it."

Marcel's hands were shaking as he pulled Clubs face towards his own and kissed him. He felt Lloyd come up behind him and run his hands over his shoulders. He told himself not to cry. Not to shake. Not to whimper.

He'd done this before, and it had meant nothing. He could do it again.

He bit down on his lip as Club kissed his way down his neck. Lloyd was reaching around to his front and unbuttoning his jeans and he thought he was going to chew his own lip off if he kept biting it so hard. Club brushed a rough finger along his jaw, and pulled his face up from his neck. Marcel tried to look less terrified. He told himself it wouldn't be so bad this time. He was cooperating, they would be gentler. He told himself there was no reason to be afraid.

The look in Clubs eye as he cupped his chin in his hand told him different. "This is good, Marcey. This is real good."

Lloyd pressed his lips against his ear. "But it's not enough."

Club shook his head. "You shoulda agreed a week ago, when Jack asked ya. It's good that you're agreein' now, but still. There's gotta be a consequence."

"This here is a test." Lloyd whispered. He gave an involuntary shudder and he felt Lloyd's tongue flicking over his ear lobe. "Usually doing one of us would be enough to prove you're going to cooperate, but you messed that up for yourself. So now it's going to be both of us." He thought he felt Lloyd's lips curve into a smile against his ear. "Together."

"Think you can handle that?" Club asked, raising an eyebrow.

Marcel closed his eyes for a moment, and said a silent goodbye to his sanity. He couldn't keep it if he was going to do this.

"Yes." He said quietly.

Club smiled at him. "Alright then. Drop your pants and get on your knees."

Not letting himself think anymore then he had to, Marcel cooperated.

When they were done with him, they put him back in the chains. However, they did move the bed back over to him, so at least he didn't have to lie on the floor anymore. He gingerly lay back down on his bed, marvelling at how the creaky old mattress felt like heaven after weeks on a hard wood floor.

He glanced up as he heard his door creak open. It was Jack. He looked pleased and Marcel looked away, resting his head in his arms. Jack's unfairly stunning features were even more appealing when was happy about something, and Marcel hated it.

Jack knelt down in front of his bed, his powder-blue eyes locking steadily on his own. Jack smiled, a real 10000 mega-watt everything-smiles-when-I-smile beamer. "You've done very well." Jack said, brushing a stray piece of hair off Marcel's forehead. He was too tired to flinch away. "Club and Lloyd are very happy." He looked at him, as though he expected some sort of answer. Marcel didn't have one. The smile faltered a bit, and he leaned in closely. "I promise Marcel, things are going to be better now. You'll see." He kissed him on his forehead before standing up to leave.

"Oh, I forgot." He added, pausing in the doorway. "There's pizza for dinner. We have vegetarian, cheese and 'meat lovers.'"

Marcel's stomach flopped around at the mention of _food_. His mind raced around, and he thought if he hadn't been so worn out he might have actually started shaking with excitement. They were going to feed him finally. And he was even being asked what he wanted. He thought he might cry. And pizza. He hadn't had pizza in so long. His friends had frowned on the food most of the time, it being so fattening and greasy and all. And when they'd had it, it was always thin-crust whole wheat, low fat cheese and vegetables. "Meat lovers." He said quietly. It was probably the worst for you, dripping with fat and grease and fuck he wanted it so badly.

Jack gave a soft, musical laugh. "That's Ace's pizza." He said, sounding amused. "He never sees the irony."

Marcel smiled too, and Jack left to get him some pizza. Marcel closed his eyes, thinking that maybe he should have given up his sanity a lot time ago. It was better like this.

* * *

><p>Things were different after that. Jack had been right. When they didn't have to struggle with him, they didn't hurt him.<p>

Each of them seemed to have a different way of his testing him out. Howie was first, a few days after Lloyd and Club. Marcel had been lying on his bed, wishing he had some books with him to help pass the hours, when Howie came in and sat quietly down on his bed. He gave him a tentative look, as though he didn't really believe what Jack had told him about his wanting to cooperate. He'd just looked at him, like he was sizing him up, until Marcel had crawled over and given him a small kiss on the lips. He'd slid his hand down between Howie's legs, and tilted his head to the side. "Is this what you want?" He asked quietly. Howie nodded, and Marcel smiled and got off the bed, kneeling in front of the large man.

He wan't sure why, but something in him was feeling oddly grateful. He wanted to thank them- they'd fed him consistently for the last few days and he was feeling a lot calmer then he had in a long, long time. He wanted to thank Howie for coming in here, and waiting for him to make the first move. It was a small thing, but it felt like he'd been given a bit more control then he'd had in the past.

So he cooperated, and they were careful with him, and things were better. He'd even managed to convince Ace to chill the fuck out, and give him a chance to prove himself where blow jobs were concerned.

He'd spent so much time being sorry for all that "practice" he'd had with blow jobs, it was odd to feel thankful for it now- but he was. Because he was fucking good at it, and if that meant Ace would let him stay in control as opposed to jamming himself down his throat until he got off, then he was damn thankful.

After the first time he'd let him blow him, Ace had smiled crookedly at him. "Marcey babe, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." He'd said. Marcel had actually felt a little proud.

One afternoon he woke up to find Stevie sitting on the end of his bed. Stevie smiled at him, and Marcel offered him a shaky smile back. "Hey there. How are you feeling?"

Marcel sat up, and shrugged. "Not too bad, I guess."

Stevie nodded, and moved a bit closer. "Marcey, I think by now you've probably noticed that I'm different then the others." Marcel nodded. "That's because I want different things then them. Club, Lloyd- those guys are just in this to get off." He rolled his eyes. "Howie's a little different. He wants to get off, sure, but more then that he wants a teddy bear to cuddle with." He smiled fondly. Marcel did too. Howie was rapidly growing on him. He liked the way he held him.

"What about Ace?" He asked.

Stevie bit his lip. "I think, when this started, he was in it to get off too but...I don't think it's enough anymore. Honestly, I have no clue what he wants now. I don't think he does either. I have never met a man more out of touch with himself then him." He shook his head. "Don't you just love how he's always calling us all fags? Like excuse me mister, the hell do you think _you _are?"

Marcel smiled, and Stevie smiled back. "And to be perfectly honest, I've _never _known what Jack wanted. He's utterly unfathomable."

Marcel nodded. "...what do _you _want?" He asked nervously.

Stevie smiled, and put his hand softly against Marcel's face. "I want _you _to get off, baby." He said, leaning forward and placing a kiss against his eyelid. "And not like Jack. I want you to want it."

Marcel felt his breath hitch. That seemed to be asking an awful lot. He would do it, whatever Stevie wanted, and Jack had proved to him that he could definetly get off, no matter how miserable he was...but actually _wanting it_...

Stevie seemed to understand. "I know, it seems crazy right now. But trust me, ok?" He said, tilting his head to the side a bit. He reached over to the side of the bed, and pulled out a large black medical bag. "Do you trust me?" He asked.

Marcel nodded. He didn't know why- maybe it was because of how Stevie had always taken care of his wounds, and hadn't touched him without his permission. But he trusted him. Stevie smiled, and opend the bag. Marcel looked inside and gulped. _Oh god..._

"Still trust me?" He asked quietly. "I promise I won't use any of this on you without your permission." He leaned in closer, and tilted Marcel's chin up, so he was looking him in the eye. "But I swear, if you let me, I will make you feel things you never thought you could." He kissed him again, this time on his lips. Marcel shivered. "Well?"

Marcel glanced down at the bag again- at the whips and chains, the cuffs and gags and other things he couldn't name (but they sure looked like torture devices).

Slowly, he nodded.


	4. Mattress

**Mattress**

The night before he was taken, he'd had a fight with his father. Not unusual, they fought a lot and nothing about this fight was particularly different from any other they'd had- nothing, except that this would be the last time they would speak for over half a year.

But neither of them knew that at this point.

"God'amnit kid, do you have to stomp around like that?" His father barked, banging on his bedroom door. He'd gotten into the fight with his friends that day, the Big Fight because they'd all figured out he'd been sucking each of them off, and were more then a little furious.

So he wasn't in the best mood, and had been stomping around his room, slamming shut drawers and generally making a lot of noise.

"Yeah, I fucking do." He snapped, wrenching his door open.

"Hey, you watch that filthy mouth of yours." He warned.

Marcel laughed. "You think a fucking swear words makes my mouth filthy?" He narrowed his eyes. "Daddy dear, if you knew even half the truly filthy things my mouth has done, your buzz cut would curl."

His fathers face flushed angrily, and his jaw tightened. "I will not have you talk to like that." He growled, turning to walk away.

"Why, because it's so much easier to pretend your son isn't a goddamned _cocksucker _if you don't have to hear about?" He shouted after him.

His father turned around at the end of the hallway, his eyes blazing snf hid face now a dark beet red. "You're god'amned right it makes it easier. If you want to go out and be some god'amned queerfag _slut _I can't stop you, but I will not stand here and listen to this fucking bullshit." He shouted, and then stormed down the stairs.

"Sorry Daddy, but not listening to me won't unsuck all those dicks!" He screamed, slamming his door.

He stood in the center of his room for a moment, looking around at it- the posters on the walls for bands and singers he didn't like, the stack of magazines about celebrities he couldn't give two fucks about. The closet full of clothes he hated, had actually grown to loathe. The only thing in the room that was his, really his, was the shelf full of books hidden at the back of his closet. The only friends he really had were in there, and he'd hidden them away behind knock-off designer labels and Abercrombie and Fitch.

Tears streaked down his face as he ripped a poster off the wall, and knocked over a stack of CD's. He screamed and stomped and it didn't help at all. Eventually he just collapsed into his bed, his skinny arms exhausted. He picked up a CD, and chucked it across the room at his light switch. It missed, and the case shattered against the wall. He picked up another CD and tried again. This time he got it, and his room plunged into darkness. He flipped over onto his stomach, wiping the hot tears from his eyes. Now that he'd stopped stomping around, he could hear music difting in through the vent.

He began to cry again, recognizing the song as "Father and Son" by Cat Stevens. He wouldn't admit it to his friends or his father, but he really liked Cat Stevens.

His last night of freedom, he lay in his bed crying and mouthing the words as Cat sang.

_All the times that I cried, keeping all the things I knew inside, _

_It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it. _

_If they were right, I'd agree, but it's them they know not me. _

_Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away. _

_I know I have to go..._

Downstairs, his father sat in his arm chair, trying to blink away the tears falling from his own eyes. He shook a tumbler of scotch around in his hand, listening to the sounds of the ice clinking against the glass and whispering the words along with the song.

* * *

><p>It had been four months since he'd seen his father, and at least 2 weeks since he'd really thought about him at all. He didn't let himself. You couldn't go from doing the the things he was doing to thinking about your father without breaking down for a while.<p>

He was with Stevie now, trying desperately _not _to turn his head as he tried to figure out where Stevie was in the room. Stevie had been working on him for almost an hour now, and he was _so fucking close_. Which is why Stevie had drawn back suddenly, leaving him to suffer with his hands chained together, help up above his head on a hook he'd made Lloyd install about a month before.

Finally, he felt the riding crop Stevie had been using sliding slowly down his back. He shivered a bit. Stevie moved around him, trailing the riding crop over his body. He smiled at him before drawing his arm back and smacking the crop against his tensed stomach a few times.

The riding crop slipped down between his legs as Stevie leaned forward, pressing his mouth against Marcel's ear. "Had enough?" He asked.

He took the ball-gag out of his mouth so he could answer.

"No." He said, knowing it was the right response. "More, please."

Stevie smiled and continued what he was doing. Marcel moaned and screamed at the right times, begging for more and wondering if Stevie was going to be done soon.

It wasn't that it didn't feel good, what he was doing- it did. Just not as much as he wanted Stevie to think it did. He wanted to please him, so he put on the act and gave him what he wanted, sort of.

He'd never grown to want it himself, like Stevie had said he would. Sure, it felt good and all and getting off was always nice, but you couldn't really want something that was happening basically everyday. If it wasn't Stevie, it was Howie, Ace, Club, Lloyd or Jack.

There wasn't time for him to want anything except sleep, and maybe some books to read.

"You are going way to soft on him." A dark voice from his left said. Forgetting for a minute, Marcel turned his head to see Ace leaning in the doorway. He shuddered. Lately, Ace had been getting rough with him again and he didn't know why. He was giving him everything he asked for it and it was still like he wasn't getting what he wanted.

"Hey!" Stevie cried, seeing Marcel looking at Ace. He brought his hand up across his face, hard. Marcel moaned a bit, and turned back to face Stevie.

"Sorry." He mumbled.

Ace laughed, and he could hear his boots thudding on the floor as he walked closer. He resisted the urge to squrim. "You have no idea how to cause real pain, do you?" Ace asked, appearing in his line of vision as he got closer to Stevie.

"Um, I think I do." Stevie snapped, stepping back away from Ace. "Besides, it's not about _pain _it's about _control_."

Ace grinned and pushed Stevie back against the wall. Marcel couldn't help turning a bit.

"It's about pain a little bit, isn't it?" He asked quietly. Stevie looked past Ace, at him, and bit his lip a bit as Ace took the riding crop from him. "Let me show you."

Stevie leaned against the wall and watched as Ace drew the riding crop back and smacked it down against Marcel's stomach with 10 times the force Stevie had ever used.

Needless to say, it hurt a lot. More then pain though, he felt annoyed. Stevie had almost been done and god knows how long Ace was going to take. He just wanted to take a nap. Still, the faster he gave him what he wanted the faster he would be done. He knew the reaction Ace was looking for was different then what Stevie wanted.

He bit onto his lip, appearing to try to hold back screams as Ace hit him over and over again. He was, sort of- everytime Ace smacked him he wanted to scream because it stung so badly...but he was almost holding back moans, just as much. Stupid Stevie, confusing his sense of pleasure and pain.

Eventually he "gave in" and began begging Ace to stop. He knew that was what he wanted.

"Please, stop." He whimpered, as Ace brought the crop down on his hip. _Ohfuckingshit. _"Please Ace, _stop!_" He screamed. _I'd like the thank the academy..._

Ace looked at him, something cold and dark in his eyes. Marcel's stomach dropped. "Really now, am I hurting you that much?" He asked, stepping closer. Marcel heard the riding crop fall on the floor. _Uh-oh..._

Suddenly there was a shooting black hole splintering in the center or his face as Ace brought his hand back and smacked him, bloodying his nose. Ace grabbed him and pulled him forward as he blinked rapidly. "You think I don't know what you're doing, you little shit?" He growled, squeezing his shoulders tightly. "You think you're so _clever _don't you? You think you've got us all figured out?"

Marcel's eyes tried to focus on Ace's face, but his head was spinning and he could only see blinking black spots. He wondered if these were supposed to be stars.

He heard a quick swishing sound, and blinked a few more times, forcing himself to focus. When he did, he saw Ace was holding a switch-blade knife right next to his face, grinning madly at him.

"See, this isn't good enough for me, Marcey." He said through a gritted smile. "I want to hear some real screams."

Obviously his ability to distinguish between pain and pleasure wasn't as muddled as he'd thought it was because what he was feeling as Ace slide the knife down threw his skin was most certainly pain.

"God you bleed so pretty." Ace said, in a tone of fake awe. Marcel gave a groan of distgust as Ace tilted his head down to his collar bone, licking the blood off the wound he'd made. The salivia stung and burned in the cut and Marcel felt tears falling down his face. Somewhere behind him in the room, he could very plainly hear Stevie getting off on this.

_That's great_. Marcel thought. _I'm going to die, and Stevie going to jerk off to it. _

He grunted again as Ace made a very small, shallow cut above his bellybutton, sinking down to collect the blood from that wound as well.

Marcel watched as Ace dropped to his knees in front of him, noticing an odd expression come over the maniacs face as he did so. He'd paused for a moment, the look in his eyes something Marcel had never seen there before. It was just for a second, whatever the look was, and then Ace was back to cutting into his thighs and lapping up the blood.

He was working on his other thigh when Jack burst through the door and smacked Ace away. "What the _fuck _do you think you're doing?" He screamed, as Club and Lloyd took the keys Stevie kept on a shabby wooden dresser by Marcel's bed and got him down. He was practically passed out by the time they lay him down on his bed, and he listened to Jack yell at Ace from a far away place, as though this was all a dream.

* * *

><p>When he woke up, pain was the first thing he felt. Everywhere, like he was covered in a warm blanket of it. It was a numb, familar feeling that in a way was almost comforting.<p>

He groaned, and then noticing he wasn't alone in his room, tried to sit up.

"Hey, don't do that." Stevie chided, pushing him gently back down. "You should rest."

Too tired to argue, he lay back down against the hard mattress, and waited for Stevie to tell him what was happening. He was kneeling next to his bed, looking at him with a distressed expression. "I'm so sorry Marcey." He said quietly.

"For what?" He asked. He winced painfully as he spoke- talking hurt the cut by his throat. A cut, he noticed, that was now neatly bandaged. He guessed Stevie had been busy while he was asleep.

"For letting him hurt you like that. I- you trusted me. And I totally violated that and I just- I'm so sorry." He said, shaking his head. He looked really upset.

"S'all right." Marcel whispered, sort of pleased at how things were changing between them. Hurting him had used to be encouraged, and now look. Now they cared about him, wanted to keep him safe.

"No, it's not. But I'm going to make it up to you." He said, his expression brightening a bit. "What do you want? Anything. What can I do?"

"Anything?" He asked. Stevie nodded vigourously. "A new mattress. A really soft one."

Stevie blinked. Obviously that wasn't what he'd been expecting. "A mattress?" Marcel nodded. "Oh...alright. Done. New mattress."

"Really?" He asked, his eyes wide. Somehow he hadn't actually expected him to say yes. A mattress seemed like a big thing to request.

Stevie smiled. "Yes, really. Anything else?"

Marcel shrugged, unable to think of anything he wanted right now, besides a mattress that didn't make his injuries feel like they were on fire.

"Well, you think about it and let me know, alright Marcey?" Stevie said, getting to his feet. He turned to leave, and another thing he wanted suddenly occurred to him.

"Books." He said. Stevie paused, and looked at him. "I want some books to read."

Stevie's brow knitted together. "Books?" He asked, his nose wrinkling slightly, as those the very idea of literature was distasteful. "Oh-kay- books? Really?" Marcel nodded, smiling to himself. He missed his books, so much. He missed any books. "Well...what kind, I guess?"

"Any. Anything you can get."

Stevie shrugged and turned to leave again, but Marcel reached out and grabbed his wrist. "Literature. I want literature, nothing from the young adults section, ok?"

"You got it, Marcey." Stevie replied. He leaned down and kissed him on his forehead, and then left.

A week later, Marcel bounced up and down on his new mattress, thinking this was the happiest a mattress had ever made someone. It was _so soft_. It was perfect. He loved it. He wished it was a living thing so he could tell it how much he loved it.

"He's so cute." Stevie said, watching him bounce from the doorway. Jack nodded in agreement, smiling.

Marcel got up and rushed over to Stevie, hugging him tightly. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou!" He said, and kissed him on the lips.

He stiffened a bit as Jack put a hand on his shoulder. "We should test it out." He said quietly.

Stevie winked at him, and left.

Marcel turned to Jack and nodded. They went over to the bed, and Jack began undressing him. Marcel thought about his mattress. It smelled a lot better then the old once. It smelled clean and new and fresh. He wanted to keep it that way, and he decided that he was not going to be giving any blow jobs on this mattress. And Lloyd and Club were staying the hell away from it too. They couldn't be trusted, and seemed to enjoy just cumming where ever the hell they felt like it.

Jack had lain him back on it now, and he wrapped his arms around Jack's neck, wondering where Stevie had gotten this mattress from. He was sure he wouldn't have _bought _it or anything, but he couldn't see Stevie bothering to go through the pains of stealing it either.

Jack was calling his attention now, with what he was doing. He hated foreplay, especially when Jack did it. Only Jack and Howie bothered, really. For Club and Lloyd, "foreplay" consisted of kiss him neck for about a minute before making him get on his knees. He was pretty sure Ace had never heard the term before in his life.

Really though, that was how he preffered it. Just get it over with, why draw it out? The whole process was a drain on him, and the whole kissing/touching/feeling part just served to make him feel dirty. It was a lot easier when it was just them wanting something, him giving it to them, them cumming and him taking a nap. Sometimes he came too, sure, but that was hardly a big deal. He had found he was oddly detached from his pshycial feelings.

Jack was finally getting around to it, and he was responding with the usual act. As Jack fucked him into his new, fluffy mattress he found his mind drifting back to Ace, whom he hadn't really seen all week. He thought about that look Ace had given him as he'd kneeled in front of him. He was pretty sure he knew that look- not personally, but he'd seen it enough times on and Stevie's face when he saw him chained up and moaning. He saw it on Club and Lloyd's faces when they looked at each other- that wanting desire that pulled at your chest and made you need something, that was the look Ace had given him, only more intense. As though he'd been denying what he wanted for so long it was torturing him.

Marcel smiled to himself. That was it. He was sure of it.

* * *

><p>The next day, Marcel ventured out of his room.<p>

Howie was sitting on the couch, and he looked up when he heard Marcel. "Hey, Howie." He said, smiling. Howie smiled back. "Um, which way is Ace's room?" He asked. Howie looked at him for a moment, before pointing down the hallway, and then jabbing his finger to the left. Marcel thanked him, and walked where he'd been instructed, past the kitchen and down the hall. He turned left at the end of it, and approached the door. He put his hand on the knob, and began opening it slowly. Part of his mind was screaming at him, telling him he was an idiot and reminding him how afraid he was of Ace. He ignored it.

Ace was sitting on his bed, leaning back against the headboard and reading the manual for the oven, which had been doing this weird thing where it turned off half way through cooking something. He looked up when Marcel came in, and he gritted his teeth a bit.

"Are you a fucking moron?" He asked, a disbelieving grimace on his face.

Marcel shrugged, and sauntered forward a bit, stopping at the end of Ace's bed. Ace put down the manual and looked at him. "If you're here for an apology, you're in the wrong fucking place."

He shook his head, inching closer to Ace. "S'not what I'm here for." He said quietly, biting his lip.

Ace raised his eyebrows. "What then?"

Instead of answering, Marcel reached forward to touch Ace's face. Ace grabbed his wrist, looking at him like he was insane. "What the fuck?"

Marcel smiled, and took his wrist out of Ace's grip. "You're funny, you know that?" He said. Judging by the look on Ace's face, no he didn't know that. "You're always calling us all fags, as though you don't want it just as badly." He began to climb onto the bed as he spoke, and Ace inched away from him a bit. "Come on, just give it up."

"Give what up?" Ace asked, sounding almost timid.

Marcel grinned. "You _know _what." He said, and reached out to touch him again. This time, Ace didn't stop him and put his hand on the back of his neck, pulling him forward and kissing him. He'd never kissed Ace before, and it wasn't what he expected. It was hard, sure, and rough. But it was desperate, too. Marcel pushed Ace down on the bed, thinking he'd finally gotten him all figured out.

* * *

><p>Ace lay with his head on Marcel's chest, and Marcel ran his fingers through Ace's hair, smiling as Ace's five o'clock shadow tickled his chest.<p>

Alright, he got it now. Sex was pretty fucking great when you got to be on top. He never had been before. Holy shit.

He looked down as Ace kissed his chest a bit, and then looked back up at him. All the anger, fire and hate that he'd come to expect in Ace's gaze was gone. He looked calm.

"Thank you." Ace said quietly. He smiled sheepishly. "I- I think I needed that."

For the next two months, things were different- but not as far as the others knew. Ace still yelled at him around them, he still pushed him around and called them all fags. But when they weren't looking, Ace would shoot him a look and wink and Marcel knew it was all an act.

Marcel spent most of his time in Ace's room now, intensely pleased to be the one fucking someone else into their mattress for a change. In turn, Ace seemed to appreciate being able to surrender control for once. He didn't have to put on a tough act when they were together, he could give up and relax, and let Marcel take over.

Afterwards, Ace would lie in his arms and talk to him. He told him about his childhood, and how his father had abused him. He told him how he'd met Jack in highschool, and the others shortly after. He told him about how miserable he always felt, and how no one, not even Jack had ever understood him. Until now.

He told him how he wanted to leave, to get away from the others. He didn't care about them anymore, or what they were doing. But he was scared, too. He'd been with them for so long, it was practically all he knew.

He never said it, but Marcel thought he might have been a little afraid of Jack, too.

Marcel was reading a book in Ace's room- one of the ones Stevie had bought for him two months earlier, when he asked him.

Marcel had been sitting up on the bed, his legs crossed under the covers, and Ace was lying with his head in his lap. He was quiet, and Marcel had thought he'd gone to sleep but when he looked down he saw that his eyes were still open. He looked like he was thinking.

"I'm leaving." Ace said quietly, after a while. Marcel looked at him, shocked. He put the book down and touched Ace's face lightly.

"Really?" He asked. Ace had been talking about leaving for as long as they'd been together like this, but Marcel hadn't ever expected him to actually do it. Ace nodded, and Marcel felt his heart sink. "Oh. Well...good, I guess. I mean, I know you want to..."

Ace sat up, and grabbed one of Marcels hands. "Come with me."

"What?"

"Come with me. Let's get the fuck out of here, together." Ace said, his eyes flashing excitedly.

"I-I can't." Marcel said, shocked. "I can't leave."

"Sure you can. I'll get you out of here, and we'll go someplace they'll never find us." He insisted.

"Where?"

"I have no idea." Ace said, grinning. "But fuck that, we'll figure it out. And we'll be together. Isn't that what matters?"

He felt dizzy now, but excited at the same time. "Ok." He said, biting his lip nervously. He smiled. "Alright."

Ace smiled wider, and leaned in to kiss him. A week later, Ace and the others would be gone, and Marcel would be left lying naked on the cold wooden floor, wishing he could be dead.


	5. Just a Test

**Just a Test**

He was lying on his Mattress, enjoying it's soft, fluffy mattressness and reading a book when it happened. Club came into his room and grabbed him, yanking him off his Mattress.

"Hey!" He yelled, dropping the book in his hands as he tried to get away. It was amazing how fast the fear came back to him, considering how long it had been since he'd felt it.

Club didn't say anything, he just dragged him out of his room and into the next one. He tossed him down, and someone else grabbed him before he could hit the ground- Lloyd. Lloyd stood him up and started undressing him, and Club came up behind him and started kissing his neck. He tried to tell himself not to be scared- it was just Club and Lloyd, he could handle them. He'd been handling them for four months.

But somehting about this felt different. They'd taken him out of his room, for one.

Club pushed him to his knees, and before he knew what was happening, he'd shoved his dick into his mouth. He fought back tears, and tried to cooperate. He swirled his toung over the unwanted organ in his mouth, and looked up at Club, as if trying to say _"See, I'm doing what you want? You don't have to hurt me." _

Club didn't seem to care, he just grabbed his head and shoved him down further. He could feel Lloyd pushing his fingers into him as well, and he tried to relax but he was too upset. _Why where they doing this? _It was confusing. Hadn't he done everything they'd asked? Hadn't he been good? He wished they would stop, and just tell him if there was something he'd done wrong- tell him if there was something he could do to fix it.

Suddenly Club ripped himself out of his mouth and backed away. He tried to take a deep breath, but before he could, Lloyd was shoving himself in, taking Club's place.

Club was standing behind Lloyd now, kissing him a bit and Marcel began to panic some more because that meant there was a third person behind him, shoving themselves inside his ass and he had no idea who it was. And whose hands were touching him, running over his stomach and back?

Lloyd pulled out now, Marcel was whipped around and suddenly someone else was in his mouth. He felt dizzy, and he'd lost track of where anyone was now. He was being pulled and pushed around, and he had no clue of who he was with and who was fucking him where but he got the distinct feeling that all 6 of them were there, tossing him around and taking turns shoving themselves inside of him. He was crying, turning to figure out what was happening and why, and still attempting to cooperate. They weren't giving him a chance.

The hands on his arms and hips were digging in tight, and he was pushed down onto the floor. All he could hear was grunting and groaning sounds, and the sad sounds he knew were coming from himself. He was pulled up, back onto his knees and he still had no idea what was happening. Everything was hurting, from being pulled and pushed and forced. He could feel them rubbing against him, the ones that weren't currently fucking him. Every time someone pulled out of his ass, and another pushed themselves in, it hurt like hell. He was scared, and tense and they didn't care. It was making his head spin and he was sure he was going to pass out, from pain and confusion. He wished he was back in his room, safe with his Mattress and his books.

His head hit the ground, hard, and for a moment everything went out of focus. His limbs were all numb, and he could barely lift them. His safety-blanket was back, covering his body and practically paralyzing him with exhaustion. His head throbbed and it took a moment to realize no one was touching him anymore. No one was touching him, but all around him was a sickly familiar _squelching _noise.

He felt it hit his stomach first, and he was still trying to figure out what it was when it hit his face. Then he got it. The smell, and the taste told him what was happening. _Oh my god..._

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard laughing. Oh it was all so broken and dead, his mind was, it couldn't help but step back and find this so hilarious. His own mind laughed at him, at how pathetic he was. It laughed and shook and screamed and he tried not to vomit.

And then they were gone. Just like that it seemed, because of how he'd begun to slip in and out of consciousness. He didn't want to be conscious anymore. Didn't want to feel, or exist.

He was conscious, however, as something heavy and cold was pressed into his sticky hand. Somewhere in another world, next to his ear, he heard Jack whisper "Take care of the rest for us, will you?"

And then silence. Unbearable silence. They'd left him. He could feel it, feel that they were gone. He was alone, and the silence was crushing him. It was almost a relief when someone started screaming, although whoever they were he felt bad for them. The screams were long and drawn out, inhuman and full of pain. Whoever was screaming, it sounded like they were dying. He hoped someone would kill them soon, and put them out of their misery.

The pain in his throat would have tipped him off earlier, as to who was doing the screaming, but it was already so sore from being fucked that it wasn't until it reached bleeding levels of pain that he put it together.

His hand twitched, and he tried to get a grasp on the gun in it. It was heavy, and his arms were so sore. It took forever to lift it up, to point the gun at his own head. It was hardly a question of whether or not he was going to do it. Of course he was. He wanted, more then anything, to be dead already. And besides, Jack had asked him too.

Without so much as a parting thought to the world, Marcel steadied the gun in his hand, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

><p>"Barney, what are we doing here?" Lucy whispered, as she watched him pick the lock on the old cabins back door. "What if we get caught?"<p>

"By who?" Barney asked, finally getting the lock to click open. At his feet his collie, Centaur, barked and scratched at the door. He opened it and the dog ran in. He held the door open for his skeptical girlfriend. "Oh come, this place is abandoned. No one ever comes here."

She sighed, and walked inside. It was a fairly big cabin, old but nice. And neat. She looked around, and went through a hallway where she found a kitchen. She turned to Barney. "If this place is abandoned, what's with the new appliances?" She asked, gesturing to the stove and microwave. "And it's awfully neat for a place no one goes to. No dust or anything."

He bit his lip, looking at the stove. The last time he'd broken in here, over a year ago, those definitely hadn't been there. But that time he'd been with a different girl.

He was about to answer her, when Centaur started barking from the other room. He froze, hearing another sound coming from the room as well...a repeated clicking noise, and what sounded like...laughter.

"Shit..." He whispered, hoping that whoever was there had a good sense of humour. He looked at Lucy, and cringed apologetically. She pointed furiously to the doorway, and crossed her arms.

Cenatour barked again, and the laughter grew louder. Now he could hear that there was something wrong with it. It wasn't "funny haha" type laughter it was...well, he didn't know _what _it was, but whatever it was, it chilled him to his core.

Lucy glared at him some more, and he relectuantly slunk into the other room, after his dog. He looked around the room and his eyes grew wide.

There was a boy lying on the ground of the cabin. He was small and skinny, and his body was covered in painful looks blue bruises. His whole body, Barney could see. He wasn't wearing any clothes. He was laughing, sickly and without humour.

Barney could understand that laughter now, and he would guess it had something to do with the white stuff covering his body.

Looking back, he would be surprised that the 3 flapjacks and bacon strips he'd had for breakfast didn't come right back up all over the floor. "O-o-ooh _fuck_..." He muttered, frozen to the spot. He snapped out of it, when he realized that while he was staring and wanting to cry, his dog was busy _licking _the boys face- licking that _stuff _off it. "Oh fuck Centaur, get away." He cried, snatching the dog back. The boy didn't seem to register his presence, just kept laughing and groaning on the ground.

"F-fuck- Lucy!" He screamed. "Lucy call 9-1-1!"

"What is it?" She asked, coming around the corner.

He jumped at her, pushing her back into the kitchen. "No no don't look!" He cried.

"Barney, what's wrong?" She asked, looking panicked.

Barney shook his head. "Just call 9-1-1, now."

* * *

><p>A dog. A dog was licking the cum off him. It was too much. Too funny. <em>Oh god<em>. That and the gun wouldn't fire. It was empty. He pulled the trigger again and again and nothing happened.

All he wanted was to be dead, and he couldn't even have that.

He was still mulling it over, when the paramedics and the police arrived. Why would they give him an empty gun?

He didn't care what anyone else was doing around him- cleaning him up, putting a blanket over him- it didn't matter. They didn't even exist. He just turned it over and over. Why was there no bullets in the gun? Why? Had they wanted to see if he would do it, kill himself for them?

He swallowed, ignoring the way the cum stung his scratched throat. That was it. It was a test. They wanted to see if he would listen. He had. He had pulled the trigger and tried to die just like they said.

They would come back for him now.

The relief was insane.

They would come back, and apologize, and hug him and it would all be alright.

The paramedics lifted him up, and put him on a stretcher. Now he paid attention. "No! No!" He screamed. What were they doing? "Stop it!" His voice was weak and sore but he screamed as loud as he could, and struggled against them. They couldn't take him away. They would come back and he had to _be here _when they did or they wouldn't know where he went. "PUT ME DOWN NOW! STOP!" He screeched. "The gun! The gun was empty! I HAVE TO STAY HERE PLEASE!"

They pushed him back down against the stretcher, hurting him. They were hurting him so badly, pushing him down and trying to take them away. They didn't understand. They _had _to understand. "Please, please don't do this." He begged. "I have to stay here, they'll come back for me."

The paramedic shook its head, and mumbled something he couldn't understand. He still wasn't listening. They needed to listen.

He didn't know how, but suddenly his hand shot up and smashed into the paramedics face. Red covered his fist, and he screamed and begged them to please not take him away. He felt a sharp pain in his arm, and his body grew heavy. "Please..." He whispered, fading out. "Please don't take me away..."

* * *

><p>His first few days in the hospital were a blur. Later, when he calmed down, he wouldn't remember most of it. What he did remember was a lot of screaming and kicking on his part. He hated these people, he hated the people who had taken him away from his home with Ace and the rest of them.<p>

Everyday he woke up in the hospital, and had to remember what had happened. The confusion, the pain...the humiliation...the gun. The empty gun. The gun was the most important thing he remembered, because it meant they hadn't wanted him dead. It was just a test or something, and now they would come back.

...But they couldn't, because he was gone.

That was usually when he started screaming and swearing, and it wasn't long before someone came and put him out. Then he would wake up hours later, and it would all start again.

Sometimes when he woke up, there would be people in the room. Doctors, police men. They asked him questions, questions he didn't like. Questions he wouldn't answer, but with more screaming. He didn't understand why they were doing this to him, why they were _hurting _him like this. Why had they taken him _away? _

He'd been in the hospital about a week, when he'd finally been able to ask. He cleared his throat, and the doctor who'd been looking at his charts turned around. "What do you want with me?" He asked, croaking out his words. His throat felt like it was on fire.

The doctor looked surprised. "We want you to get better, Marcel." He said, taking a seat next to his bed. "You've gotten bruises almost all over your body, and you practically dislocated your shoulder. Don't you want that to heal?"

"I want to _leave._" Marcel whispered, tears forming in his eyes. "Please, please let me leave."

The doctor sighed, and stood up. "You're not healthy enough, not at all. And besides, we've recommended you undergo a psychiatric evaluation, for the mental trauma."

Marcel wasn't listening anymore, and he grabbed the doctors arm, almost falling out of bed. "Please, I'll do anything if you let me go back to them. _Anything _you want, I don't care what you do to me. I'll let you-"

The doctor was shaking his head, pushing him gently back into his bed. "That's _not _what anyone here wants from you. We just want to help."

"Fuck you!" Marcel shouted, crying. "You fucking white-coat wearing peice of shit let me _the fuck go!_" He screamed, ignoring the pain in his throat. The doctor just sighed, and put another needle in his arm, knocking him out.

"How are you feeling, Marcel?"

Marcel looked at the man next to him, and glared.

This man had been in his room when he'd woken up for the last three days, asking questions. He didn't remember most of the answers he'd given, because these Q and A's usually ended with him screaming and crying, and getting knocked out. He did remember that he didn't like them.

"I'm fucking amazing." He said hoarsely.

The man, Marcel thought he remembered him telling him to call him Pete, smiled. "Sarcasm, that's good." He wrote something down on the notepad he had with him.

"Can I leave soon?" He asked, his chest pounding as he anticipated the answer.

Pete shook his head. "We've been over this. As soon as the doctors say your well enough, you'll be relocated to the psychatric ward for further treatment. No- don't get upset, please. Marcel you've been through a _terrible _situation-"

"What situation? I'm fine! I've been _fine._" He insisted.

"The situation is you were kidnapped, taken away from your friends and family and held prisoner for the last six months. And during those six months, you were, in your own words 'fucked in the ass and mouth a lot,' and I've gathered that it wasn't something you were too keen on. Now do you not feel that any of those things left you just the slightest bit unstable?" He raised his eyebrows.

"No, it left me fine. I wasn't a _prisoner- _I feel like more of a prisioner here! If anything's making me unstable it's this fucking _hospital _holding me captive when all I want to do is-"

"Go back?" Pete finished. He looked at him sadly. "Marcel, why do you want to go back to the people who kidnapped and raped you?"

He was crying again, and he ran his fingers through his hair, a frusterated knot in his chest. "You don't understand." He said, trying to speak clearly through his tears. "It wasn't _like _that anymore- it was different. They cared about me."

"You see, this is what you and I are going to work through. Understanding what happened to you, and why you feel like this. I know it seems hard to understand now, but I think deep down you know that what they did was not ok with you."

He broke down, and fell back on his bed, sobbing. He was never going to get out of here. They would never understand.

Pete patted him softly on his good shoulder, and left. Marcel bit down on his lip, tyring to figure out what to do. No one got it, no got that he hadn't been a prisoner- maybe at first, but not always. It hadn't been like that, and no one would see it.

He cried harder, feeling more alone then he'd felt in months. No one here was listening to him, no one cared. He missed his Mattress- the hospital bed he was in was hard and stiff, and he hated it. He missed Ace, missed holding him and kissing him and listening to him talk to him like he knew he'd never talked to anyone else. He missed Stevie and his high breathy voice, and the twinkle in his eyes. He missed being cuddled against Howie's vast chest. He missed falling asleep with Club and Lloyd, sandwiched tightly between their bodies. Fuck, he even missed stupid Jack and his stupid good looks.

He missed them all, and it killed him that no one would understand.

He wondered if they were looking for him...he wondered if they would find him here, and come rescue him. He hoped so.

He looked up at the ceiling above his bed, and decided that there was no point trying to make anyone understand. They never could.

He would have to go along with it, and wait. Hopefully they would come for him soon.


	6. The Bin

**The Bin**

Less then a week later, Marcel was taken from the medical ward by one of the orderlies, and led to another section of the hospital. The psychiatric wing.

Once they got there, he was handed off to another orderly, a blond woman with a blank expression on her face.

"Alright, this is it," she said, leading him into a big open room. "We call this the main room. You'll probably spend most of your time here."

Marcel looked around the room, hugging his arms over his chest and feeling afraid. There were so many people. They were everywhere- scattered about the room, watching TV, talking to each other and themselves. It had been so long since he'd been around this many people- this many strangers. He tried to focus on something else- the TV off in the corner, the tables...but he couldn't. He felt like everyone was staring at him and he wanted to run. Did they know who he was, and what happened to him? Everyone else seemed to.

He looked around some more, and his stomach flipped over when he saw the bookshelves. "Books." He said, not caring how much of a non sequitur it was. Books were familiar, and he mentally latched onto the sight of them.

The woman nodded.

"You can read as much as you like, but try not to hoard them in your room. Other patients might want to read the one you have, so just put it back when you're done. We've got a pretty good collection, but if there's something else you want we can probably get it. Follow me," she said, beginning to walk across the room.

"Down the hall is where we eat," she explained as they walked. "To the left are the boys' rooms and to the right, the girls', where you are not allowed to go."

They entered the boys' dorms, and walked down a hall lined with doors. "Your father brought your clothes, and Peter has already given you the go ahead to wear them, so they're in your drawers."

They stopped at a door, and she took out a ring of keys and unlocked it. "This is your room, it locks from the inside. However, the orderlies, therapists and nurses all have keys. You're on level one and you've got five minute checks. If you're in here, someone will come get you when it's time for a meal."

He walked into the room and looked around. It was small, with a bed, a desk and a small chest of drawers. He frowned at the bed. The mattress looked thin.

"Do you, uh, have any questions?" she asked awkwardly. "I've been told I don't elaborate enough."

"No." He said quietly. "I'm fine."

She nodded, and closed the door behind her.

He stood in the middle of his room for thirty seconds, just looking around before going over to the drawers. He pulled them open, and stared at the clothes inside. He wondered what Stevie would have thought of them- he probably would have approved. Stevie had bought all the clothes he'd worn when he was with them, and they'd born a striking resemblance to the ones his friends had chosen for him. He pulled on a pair of skinny jeans and a random t-shirt, barely looking at them before putting them on. All his clothes looked the same to him, and it didn't matter either way what they were. He already knew he hated everything he owned.

He'd planned on staying in his room for as long as possible, to avoid the hordes of people waiting outside, but after about fifteen minutes he couldn't take it anymore. How did people live like this, with someone popping their head in every five minutes to check on them? It was maddening.

He left his room, and cautiously wandered out into the main room.

He told himself no one was staring at him, and he kept his head down, darting quickly across the room to the book shelves. They had a wide range of books, from things like _Twilight_ and _Gossip Girl_, to _War and Peace_ and _The Trial_. They had John Grisham and Stephen King, Judy Blume and the Brontë sisters.

He smiled, and looked around for what he wanted to read. Eventually he landed on _Until I Find You_, by John Irving. He'd read it before, several times, but he couldn't seem to get enough of it. He walked quickly over to a corner of the room with few people around it, enjoying the comforting feeling of the weight of the book in his hands.

He sat down and read. If he could sit there quietly and read, the rest of it didn't matter. He didn't need to think about it, and if he didn't think about it then it didn't exist. He blocked it out, all of it- Jack and the others, their awful test (was it a test- were they looking for him? They had to be–) and the horrible situation he found himself in now. The other people- the other _patients_ didn't exist and so it didn't matter if they were staring at him or not. There was nothing except the words on the page and the world they created.

He would do this for as long as he could- reject the world around him, and elect to hide inside the ones he could hold in his hands. That was what books were for, after all. They gave you somewhere to hide from real life when it all got to being too much.

He wasn't sure if it was because he was trying so hard to keep everything else out, or because of how stressed and tired he felt, but time seemed to jump around a lot. His first day in the institution was a distorted jumble of hours and instances, unconnected to each other. He was in therapy, he was in group, he was reading, he was in his room. He couldn't piece together when or what had happened, he just went along with it.

He was at breakfast, and it was day two of his incarceration.

Marcel picked at the lumps in the oatmeal while trying to concentrate on reading and at the same time, trying_not_ to think about the growing ache in his chest. He was determined to ignore it, even if it kept pulling him out of the book-world and back into _this _one, because if he didn't he might have to stop and think about what that ache was.

"Hello there," a throaty voice to his right said. He jumped, and almost fell out of his chair. It was a girl, with long brown hair and dark eyes. She smirked at him. "Sorry for the scare. I'm Lina." She said, sitting down next to him and extending her hand.

He looked at her hand for a moment before taking it. "Marcel," he said quietly.

She nodded. "I know. You're in my group therapy," she said.

"Oh," was all he could think to reply. He'd spent all of group therapy zoning out.

"So, what's your deal?" she asked. "I have OCD. Sexual compulsions."

He looked away. "I don't want to talk about it."

She smiled, and put her hand on his thigh. A shiver ran down his spine at her touch. She noticed, and pushed her hand further in, between his legs, where he could not believe he was hard. "We don't need to tall about it," she whispered.

"Lina!" The blond orderly snapped, walking into the dining room. "What are you doing?"

Lina drew her hand back, and tried to look innocent. "Nothing Sheila."

Sheila narrowed her eyes, and looked at Marcel.

"She wasn't doing anything." He said.

Not looking convinced, Sheila looked back at Lina, and pointed her finger at her. "I catch you doing nothing again, you'll be in solitary, alright?" Lina nodded, and Sheila walked away.

Once Sheila was gone, Lina leaned in close to him. "I know a place where we can go," she said, her eyes glinting.

Marcel shook his head. Whatever reaction his body'd had at the initial touch was gone, and he really didn't want it to come back. "I'm gay," he said.

She frowned. "So...what, you don't want to have sex with me?"

"No, sorry," he said, thinking that he didn't want to have sex at all...unless it was with Ace, maybe.

Lina, looking extremely confused, got up quietly and walked out of the room. Marcel finished his breakfast, and went back to his corner to read.

It was nighttime, and Marcel had just been informed that he would need to be in his room in a half an hour for lights out. Most of the patients had already gone to bed, and the main room was practically empty. Marcel walked over to the bookshelves, having finished _Until I Find You_.

"Oh, so _you're_ the one who took it."

Marcel turned and saw a boy with messy brown hair standing next to him, smiling wryly. He looked at the book he'd been about to put back, and held it up. "This?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah. I went to go get it today and it was gone."

"Oh, well, I'm done now," he said, handing it to him.

"Thanks. I'm Michael, by the way."

"Marcel," he said, hugging his arms over him.

"Well, welcome to being crazy," Michael said. He gave him a small smile, and Marcel just frowned, unsure how to respond. Michael leaned in a bit, looking him in the eye. "Don't tell anyone I said this, but this place isn't actually so bad," he said quietly. He smiled again, and Marcel sort of wanted to smile back.

Michael straightened back up, and looked at the bookshelf. "What're you planning on reading next?"

Marcel shrugged. "Haven't decided yet."

"Well, what are you looking for?"

"Something comforting," he said instantly.

Michael nodded, and looked around the shelves until he found the book he wanted. He handed it to him. "It's not Pulitzer winning literature, but it's charming and funny as hell." He said. "It's about an average guy who gets stuck being a grim reaper."

Marcel took the book from him, and looked at the cover. It was called _A Dirty Job_.

He nodded. "Alright," he said quietly. He looked at Michael and tried to smile. "Thanks."

Michael shrugged. "No problem."

An orderly from the night shift came out now, and told them they'd better get to bed, and they walked in silence to the boys' dorms. "Goodnight, Marcel," Michael said when they'd reached his room.

Marcel nodded, and Michael disappeared behind his door.

It was morning, and Marcel woke up shaking and sweating. He felt like he'd just woken up from an_awful _dream but he couldn't remember anything about it. His chest ached cruelly, and he gave a confused jerk as he pulled his hand out of his pants. _What the fuck?_

There was a clicking sound from his door, which meant it was being unlocked. He quickly closed his eyes again, pretending to be asleep. The orderly didn't bother to announce their presence with, "Checks," they simply closed the door and locked it again.

He opened his eyes, and bit down on his lip too keep from crying as he put a shaking hand back between his legs, where he was still very hard. And not just morning wood hard either. This was "you need to deal with me now" hard.

He couldn't even remember the last time he'd masturbated. Frankly, he wasn't totally sure he even remembered how.

At his therapy session with Pete the day before, he vaguely remembered being told that inside the night table next to his bed he would find what they called "self-satisfaction tools."

He opened it up now, and inside found a box of tissues and a small medical looking bottle of "personal lubricant." He would have laughed if he hadn't wanted to cry so much.

Months and months of getting fucked so hard he couldn't feel his legs, months of orgasms that made him scream so loud his throat hurt, months of being bound, gagged and whipped into submission...months of making love to Ace...and he'd never once felt this need. It stung in his chest and clawed at him.

Everything he'd been through...he'd never wanted it. He'd certainly never needed it.

He grabbed at the bottle and a handful of tissues, and shoved them under the covers. He got ready under the covers, squeezing the stuff out onto his hand. It was cold and slimy, and he shivered as he put his hand into his pants. Then he closed his eyes and waited the next check.

After the orderly had left, he moved quickly, trying not to let himself think too much about what he was doing. He tried to conjure up images of Ace, tried to remember the feeling of his lips against the back of Ace's neck as he'd thrust into him...but it didn't work. He could see Ace in his mind, but as he pushed forward he could also see Jack and Club and Lloyd.

He groaned, pushing his fingers inside himself. As always, he only felt a dull pressure as opposed to something good, but it seemed to be what his body needed anyways, and he bit down on his lip to keep from making a noise as he came.

The clicking sound alerted him as to another check, and he dropped back down into pretend sleep mode. They left, and he began cleaning himself up, the clawing in his chest replaced by a profound sense of emptiness.

* * *

><p>He spent the morning reading <em>A Dirty Job<em>, and he found he liked it a lot. It was very funny, and he actually caught himself smiling just a little. But by lunch time came around, he couldn't concentrate anymore. He was staring at the pages, reading the same sentence again and again. And then he wasn't reading at all, he was just staring.

The feeling in his chest was back, tighter and more pressing then before. He thought about going back to his room, and repeating what he'd done in the morning, but merely considering it made him want to cry. Touching himself felt awful and awkward. He didn't want to touch himself...he wanted someone else. Of course he did, now that they were gone. Now that he was alone.

He became aware of a presence next to him, although this time he was able to stop himself from jumping. "Lina."

Lina smiled at him, although it looked a lot more like a smirk. "Hell-o."

He looked at her, trying to remember how conversations were supposed to work. "Um- what are...how are you?"

"Have you given any thought to my offer?" she asked, ignoring his question. Obviously she wasn't great at conversations either.

"What off-?" He sighed. "I don't want to have sex with you," he said, although he found there was less conviction in his voice. Turning her down was automatic response- he was gay, she was a girl. But then again, so what? Sure, he didn't _want_ to have sex with her, he hadn't wanted to have sex with Jack either, and that had never stopped him from having the most intense of orgasms. He knew better then anyone that there was no connection between _wanting_ and_getting off_. And right now, he wanted to get off.

He looked at her, about to take back what he'd said, and saw that she was smiling. Not the sensual smirk she'd had on before but a real smile, bright and beaming. He realized she was actually very pretty.

"That's lovely," she was saying, looking extremely pleased with the fact that he had shot her down again. He remembered what she'd said the other day, about being sexually compulsive. Fuck. Oh well.

Before he could say anything further, she kissed him quite chastely on the lips, and bounded off to the girls' dorms. He blinked after her for a few moments, noting that this was the first time he'd ever kissed a girl before. He shook his head, and tried to get back to his book.

It was night again and he was standing in front of the bookshelves. There was only one other person in the room, and Marcel watched out of the corner of his eye as he left the couch and walked over to him.

"Hey," Michael greeted, giving him a small crooked smile. "I guess you didn't like _A Dirty Job_."

"No, no, I did," Marcel said. "I'm just done. Need something else."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "Wow, that was fast."

He shrugged. "Well, I've basically been reading all day."

Michael nodded. "I save reading for when I'm stuck in my room at night, with nothing else to do. Besides, I've got a reputation as an easily angered simpleton to maintain."

Marcel stuck his hands into the pockets of his skinny jeans. "How long have you been here?" He asked.

Michael seemed surprised as the question. "Uh, I don't...little over a year, I think." He scratched his head. "Shit, huh?"

Marcel nodded. "Yeah, wow. So you're real fucked up huh?"

Michael laughed. "Yeah, I guess so." He looked at him. "But I don't think I'm alone there."

Marcel crossed his arms, and looked away. "I'm not crazy. And I don't belong here."

"Never heard that one before," Michael said. Marcel felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked back at Michael. "_'__We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Or we can decide for ourselves._'" He smiled. "If you don't want to be crazy, then get better. It won't be easy, and it's going to take a motherfucking long time, but you can do it."

Marcel's eyes widened a bit. "You've...read _Choke_?"

Michel gave him a 'duh' look. "I'm an angry teenager in a mental institution," he said, once again giving him a crooked smile. "Chuck Palahnuik is basically my god."

"I've read _Invisible Monsters_ sixteen times," he said breathlessly.

Michael grinned. "I've read _Fight Club_ twenty one times."

Marcel scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Well of course your favourite would be _Fight Club_."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged. "Oh, nothing, nothing at all." He grinned. "But testosterone overdose much?"

"You did not just say that."

"I may have."

"You are totally off-"

"Boys!" The sharp voice of a night orderly snapped. They both jumped. "Lights out was five minutes ago? What are you still doing out here?"

"Uh, we're coming." Michael said. He looked quickly at the bookshelf and grabbed a copy of _Fight Club_. He pushed it against Marcel's chest, and the smaller boy took it. "Read it again." He instructed.

Marcel nodded.

* * *

><p>If he'd hoped he was going to feel better as time went on, the next few days proved just the opposite.<p>

The need was growing worse, getting almost painful. He felt awful, and wanted to do nothing but hide out in his room, but the checks made that unbearable. So he suffered in a corner of the main room, keeping his knees up in front of him, and staying away from everyone. The stiffness between his legs kept him rooted to the ground almost all of the day. He refused to even stand up to eat. He was too ashamed, and too upset. He didn't want anyone else to know what was happening to him.

However, despite his effort, there was one person who seemed to understand exactly what was going on. Lina, he was finding out, was actually quite sweet. She brought food out to him when he didn't come in, and he almost cried out of gratitude. She hugged him, and kissed him on the cheek and he realized this was what people called platonic affection.

It was nice.

Eventually, after two disconnected and painful days, Lina seemed to take pity on him.

"I have a solution," she said the next morning, bringing him out some breakfast.

"To what?" he mumbled, trying to balance his bowl of oatmeal on his knees.

"To your _problem_," Lina said, rolling her eyes. "Honestly- 'to what?'"

"What is it?"

Lina smiled. "Finn," she said simply.

He furrowed his brow. "What's a fin?"

She shook her head. "Not what- _who_. Finn is the only other boy here, as far as I know, who's a paraphiliac."

"I am _not _a paraphiliac!" He protested, scrunching up his nose.

Lina raised an eyebrow for a moment, then took her fingers and ran them painfully across his thigh, scratching him with her nails. His head snapped back a bit, and he tried to suppress a moan. She smirked at him and he glared, resisting the urge to ask her to do it again.

"Anyways," she continued. "Finn's here because he raped his brother Lord knows how many times, before trying to kill himself."

"So- is he gay then?"

Lina gave an exasperated sigh. "You're not listening. That doesn't matter- although for the record, I have no clue- oh there he is." Lina said, gesturing over to a boy standing over by the entrance to the boys' dorms. Marcel looked up, and looked him over. He was tall- probably about as tall as Howie. He couldn't tell if he thought he was attractive though, although he guessed he was cute enough. Before he could really make up his mind, Finn got a terrified look on his face and dashed out of the ward.

Marcel's jaw dropped. "What the- where the hell is going? He just left!"

"Oh, yeah. He's going to visit his minion in the medical ward. She just came out of a mini-coma."

He looked away from the door, and back at Lina. "What happened?"

She smiled. "Oh, it's a lovely story, actually. You see Robbie over there?" she asked, looking over at the blue eyed, blond-haired orderly. Marcel nodded. "Well, he's brand new. Up until last week, there was another orderly working in his place. His name was Corey, and he was a gigantic asshole- and he had quite the thing for Finn." She said, her eyes glinting. "So last Friday I was wandering around, when I walked past a room and heard groaning. I looked inside, and what do I see but Finn on his knees, rather expertly sucking Corey off." She smiled again, as though this was a very fond memory.

"Oh...so he is gay then?"

She shook her head. "Still don't know- judging from the look on Finn's face, this wasn't a particularly consensual blow-job."

Marcel's eyes went wide. "Oh my god- what did you do?"

She raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean? I didn't do anything."

"Lina!"

"What?" She asked, obviously angered. "Are you forgetting the part where Finn raped his brother? You think he wasn't on the other side of a non-con BJ a few dozen times?" She ground her teeth. "Just because he goes around acting like a big dumb doofus all the time doesn't change what he is or what he did. I didn't do anything because he deserved it. It's only fair he should get a taste of his own medicine, isn't it?" She smiled cruelly. "Pun intended."

Marcel sighed. "I don't know...I guess. Alright, keep going."

"Well, my involvement basically ends there, so I only know what I've heard, but apparently Finn's tiny little sidekick- her name is Paige- stumbled upon them as well and tried quite bravely to rescue Finn. Somehow she got her head slammed into a wall or something, but Finn was able to get Corey's taser and turn it on him. So now Corey's in jail and Paige is in the hospital. Finn got permission to leave the bin to go see her, on the condition he convinced his mother not to sue."

Marcel nodded, thinking this over. "Wow...this all just happened last week?"

"Mmhmm. So you've got wonderful timing, because if you'd been here when Corey was, odds are it would have been you and not Finn."

"What makes you say that?"

She rolled her eyes. "Please- you're twice as good looking, a quarter of his size and you've had much less time to recover then he did. So you're actually quite lucky."

Marcel laughed. "Yeah, that's me. Lucky duck." He changed the subject. "We still don't know if Finn is gay though."

She sighed. "I keep telling you that doesn't matter."

"But if he's not gay he won't want to fuck me," he pointed out. "And if he tried to kill himself, he must feel bad about his brother. So..."

She grinned. "See that's the beauty of it. Finn has IED- intermittent explosive disorder. He can't control his aggressive impulses. His aggressive sexual impulses. If you get close enough to him, he won't be able to help himself. It won't matter if he wants to or not."

Marcel frowned. "That seems cruel."

Lina's eyes narrowed. "Just wait another day or so, when that pushing and pulling in your chest reaches a breaking point. When you can't think or eat or move anymore because you need it so badly. When all you can do is lie on your bed and fuck yourself- not even stopping when an orderly walks in on you, no matter how ashamed and disgusted you are with yourself." She looked him in the eye. "Wait until you've reached that point, then come talk to me about cruelty."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I question Lina's diagnosis of both Finn and Marcel as true paraphiliacs.**

**Also, the full quote Michael says is as follows: "'We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heros or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves.'" It's from the book Choke by Chuck Palahnuik.**

**Thanks to lil-miss-chocolate for proof-reading. **


	7. Lina's Story

**Lina's Story**

Lina was right. It had barely been two days since their conversation, and he was already going out of his mind. Even when he gave in and tried to take care of it himself, it wasn't enough. He couldn't take it anymore- waking up in the middle of the night, sweating and sticky but somehow still hard. It was disgusting.

He was sick of touching himself, sick of how humiliating it felt and how he kept almost getting caught by the orderlies. And what's more, it was all he could think about. Sex, fucking, dicks, moaning- it was in his head all the time, leaving no room for anything else. He couldn't even read anymore- just couldn't concentrate.

He _had _to be able to read- to get lost in the different little worlds that had always been the only places he felt he belonged.

It was too much, and enough to drive him to look in every single room in the boys dorms until he found Finn. It didn't take long, actually.

Finn didn't look up when he entered, and he sat down on the bed. When he finally did, Marcel tried to smile. "Hi." He said. He was consciously making his voice higher, like he used to do with his friends. He thought about them now and tried to remember what they'd taught him about flirting.

Finn was looking at him with a pained expression, pushing himself back against his headboard. "Uh, uh, what do you want?"

He shrugged, trying to appear casual even though his heart was pounding erratically in his chest. "Lina told me why you're here." He licked his lips nervously. "I...wanted to talk to you."

"Yeah, ok good." Finn said, sounding strained. He jumped off the bed. "Let's talk out in the main room."

He stood up as well and stepped towards him, but Finn sank back down on the bed again. He was feeling more and more nervous now, and painfully anxious. Lina had said all she'd needed to do was ask if he'd wanted to have sex with her. Why did he need to be so difficult now? "I want to talk in here." He said, raising his eyebrows. Finn must have been nervous too, and he tried to think about how he could make this easier for him.

"What about? Finn asked, his eyes darting around.

He put his hand on Finn's thigh, trying to let him know that it was _ok. _He licked his lips again. "I thought we could...help each other out." He said, hoping Finn knew what he meant.

"In, um, what way?" Finn asked, although judging from the way his lips quivered nervously, he did know.

Marcel moved forward again, speaking softly. "I know what you want." He said. Finn was close, and he was so big...the need for him hit him like a brick wall. He couldn't even hear his own voice anymore, over the pounding in his ears. "And what I want is to give it you."

Finn bit his lip as he moved on top of him, and the warmth of his body was so intense Marcel barely heard him when he spoke. "This is a b-bad idea, Marcel."

Marcel smiled, still not listening as Finn told him he didn't want this. "I need this." He whispered, feeling dazed. He leaned in to kiss him, and suddenly found himself being forced off him. Finn glared at him. "Ok, no. That's enough!" He said angrily. "You _don't want this._" Finn told him, pointing his finger at him as though he was an animal being scolded.

Frustrated, he leaned in and tried to kiss him again. "Yes, I _do._" He insisted. Finn shoved him back again. "_Please?_" He said, exasperated.

Finn sighed. "Look, I get it ok, you're horny and the porn here sucks but this is so not what you need right now."

Marcel ground his teeth. He hated how Finn was speaking to him, with that patronizing tone. As though he had any idea what he was going through. "Why not?"

"I don't know," Finn said, reinforcing Marcel's idea that Finn didn't actually have a fucking clue what he was talking about. "But it feels super wrong and I'm pretty sure it would be bad for both of us."

"Finn, Lina told me about what you did to your brother and how bad you feel," He said. Finn looked away. "But you don't need to feel bad about this because I'm saying _yes_."

"No, no you're not." He muttered."It sounds like you are, but you're not because someone did something to you to make you this way, so it's not you saying yes, it's them making you say yes, see?"

Them making him- what the fuck? "No one made me anything." He said slowly. He bit his lip and frowned. "This is just how I am."

"I don't think so." Finn said, giving a knowing and superior look. He put his hand Marcel's knee, and Marcel took in a sharp breath. "I think someone did something to you that made you think this is who are you are, and what you want. But it isn't."

"Yes, it is." He said absently. He was looking at the hand on his knee, suddenly not able to think very much anymore. Finn's hands were huge. And warm. "They didn't make me like this. I was- I was like this before, that's why they picked me." He let his voice drop back down to normal, distracted.

"Ok that's totally not true." Finn said, and Marcel felt his fingers give his knee a little squeeze. "You didn't do anything to make them- wait." Finn said, breaking off with a sudden look of horror on his face. He drew his hand back, and Marcel groaned inwardly. _No no that's the opposite of what I want..._ "What do you mean they? Like, multiple people 'they'?"

Marcel sighed, and leaned back again the wall, shrugging. "I think they were like some sort of club. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the first." Although he'd been fairly sure he was different then the others. Something twisted itself around in his stomach, and he pushed it away. No, he was different.

"Jesus christ, man." Finn said, his mouth still hanging open in horror. "I mean, like oh my god. What happened?"

Marcel looked at Finn out of the corner of his eye. "If I tell you, will you fuck me?" He tried, raising his eyebrows. It was a long shot, but what the hell.

"Um, no."

Marcel gritted his teeth. "No dice."

"Fine." Finn said, shrugging. "But if I were to have sex with you, you'd just feel like even more shit about yourself."

Marcel gave a humourless laugh. "Pretty sure that's not possible."

"It's always possible." Finn mumbled, his eyes glazing over a bit. "No matter how low you feel, there's always a lower." He shook his head, and his eyes cleared. "But you can get better, too. With like talking, and medication and shit."

Marcel resisted the urge to just get up and leave. Finn wasn't going to help him- he'd been here too long and they'd gotten to him. He sounded like Pete.

He glared at him, and shook his head. "I'm fucked for good."

"I thought that too, when I first came here." He said. "Actually, I'm pretty sure everyone thinks that. But it's not true."

Marcel raised an eyebrow. "You're better?"

Finn shrugged. "I think the fact that we're not having sex right now sort of proves that." He grinned. "Look, I know how you feel, but it'll get better-"

That was enough.

_I know how you feel._

The_ rapist _knew how he felt.

He was on top of him and reaching down his pants before he even had time to process it. "Fuck you, you don't know _shit_ about how I feel." He growled. This guy- this _dick_ did not. Know. How. He. Felt. _No one did. _"You think because you fucked your brother, and had to suck off some orderly you're suddenly the big expert on this shit?"

Finn just looked at him calmly, and took a deep breath. "I didn't say you could touch me." He said. Marcel furrowed his brow. _The fuck did that mean? "_You know what that means you're doing, right?"

Marcel loosened his grip on Finn's dick, as Finn's words sunk in. He was practically raping the rapist. _Oh fuck..._

"They did this to you," Finn continued. "But it's over now. Now you can either give in to what they did, or fight back."

He felt himself slipping back slowly, almost falling off Finn and collapsing back against the bed as he realized what he was becoming. "Oh, my god..." He said, his eyes wide. He felt Finn's arm around him, and tears began to form in his eyes. "I am so sorry, Finn." He whispered.

"It's ok." Finn said, patting him reassuringly.

"No, it's not." He said, wiping at the tears running down his cheeks. "I can't believe...oh god, I'm so fucked up." He said, putting his face in his hands. They were right. Maybe not about everything- but about him, they were right. He was fucking crazy. _Oh no. Oh no oh no..._

"Yeah dude, you are." Finn agreed. "But I mean, so is everyone here. Doesn't mean you're gonna be fucked up forever."

He sniffed a bit, and looked up. "It feels like I will."

Finn shrugged. "Yeah, and you'll probably feel like that for a while. But eventually you'll start getting defucked up, and it'll feel like maybe one day things won't be so nuts."

Marcel felt himself begin to shake, and Finn moved his arm more securely around him. It was almost funny. Here he was holding him, and he was too upset to enjoy it at all. "I hate feeling like this, it's such fucking shit." He muttered, crying harder.

"Trust me, I get that." Finn consoled. "But seriously, I know it feels like fucking will make everything better, but it actually doesn't."

"I don't want to want it." He cried. Especially since he couldn't have it anymore- why did he have to want it _now?_

Finn nodded."I know."

Before he could respond, the door opened and the red-headed orderly Marcel thought was called Carly opened the door. "Checks-"

When she saw them sitting there, her jaw dropped and her eyes went wide. Marcel could almost see her thinking the words _"Oh Fuck."_

Finn took his arm away and held his hands up. "We're just talking, I swear!"

Marcel nodded. He wiped at his cheeks again. "He didn't screw me, I promise."

"Not even a little." Finn added.

Carly sighed, and closed her eyes. "Just...can you finish talking out in the main room please? Maybe that way I can keep my job?"

Finn nodded and practically shot out of the room, and Marcel followed numbly behind him. Carly gave him the standard sympathetic smile, and closed the door to Finn's room.

They went back out to the main room, and Finn darted over to the TV area where Michael was sitting on the couch next to a tiny girl with black hair. Finn sat down next to the girl and buried his head against her shoulder, and she patted his head like he was a dog, not looking away from the TV. He figured that this was Paige then.

"So how'd it go?" Lina asked, bouncing over to him.

He looked at her glumly. "It didn't. Also I tried to rape him. Excuse me while I go end myself." He said, turning back to the boys dorms.

Lina grabbed his wrist, "No no." She said, shaking her head. He just stared at her, and she sighed. "Alright, come with me."

She led him by the wrist down a hallway and they stopped in front of a door at the end of it. Lina took a bobby pin out of her hair and stuck it into the lock, jiggling it a little until it turned. She grinned and pushed the door open.

"What room is this?" He asked, wandering inside.

"One of the rooms they use for group therapy," She said, locking the door behind her. "The lock is crazy easy to pick."

She pushed him against the wall that the door was on, so if someone looked in they wouldn't be able to see them. "What're you doing?" He asked, as she undid the button on his jeans.

"Helping out a friend." She said simply. She began wiggling his jeans down, and he stopped her.

"Wait, wait-" He said, holding her hands. She raised her eyebrows at him. "I don't want- I mean, you don't have to. I saw how happy you were when I said 'no'...I don't want to hurt you."

She bit her lip. "I just...I hate having it _in _me, you know?" She confessed. She pushed him down a bit, and they both sunk to the floor. "So...how about I just give you a hand-job? I don't mind that." She pulled his jeans past his hips, and took him lightly in her hand. A small groan escaped him, and his heart began to pound at the contact.

He nodded quickly and she smiled and began to move her hand up and down. He bit down on his fist to keep from crying out, it felt so good. So good to have someone else touching him, taking care of him. "Oh god, Lina-" He moaned. His brain rattled around in his head, and every nerve in his body felt like it was crying, everything elated at finally receiving what it had grown to need to desperately.

She smiled a bit, looking like she was concentrating on what she was doing. He put his fingers in her hair, marvelling at how strange it felt- her hair was long and soft, and smelled sweet. She glanced up at him when he touched her, a strange look in her eye. He pulled her forward, pressing his lips against her and moaning her name again. The kiss was purely for her sake, but he supposed it felt nice enough. She smiled as she kissed him, and continued moving her hand until he was finished.

Marcel breathed heavily as Lina found a box of tissues and cleaned them both up. When she was done she sat down next to him and leaned back against the wall.

"Do you want to talk about it yet?" She asked.

He swallowed and glanced sideways at her. "About what?"

"You know, you. What your deal is. Your sad, sad story or whatever." He frowned at her, and she bit her lip, looking suddenly vulnerable. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

He looked at her a moment longer, and sighed, bitter at not being allowed the time to enjoy the first bit of calm he'd felt in weeks. "You first."

She surveyed him skeptically. "Promise?" She asked, holding out her pinky to him.

"Promise." He said, hooking his pinky with hers.

Lina nodded, and was quiet for a minute. Marcel figured she was trying to decide how to begin.

"It started when I was 13." She said eventually. "I sort of..._matured _a lot faster then the other girls in my class. I'd always been pretty, and growing up people had always told me I was but now it was different. Now they were _jealous. _I wasn't just pretty, I was _beautiful._" She smiled sadly. "I loved it. Loved being told how beautiful I was..." She swallowed. "Um, so that was when my Uncle Lester started hanging around a lot. And he was _always _telling me how beautiful I was, and what I mature young lady I had grown into. I loved that- loved _him._" She paused, staring off at a corner of the room. "One day he asked me if I wanted to play a game with him- it was an adult game, and I couldn't tell anyone. It was just our secret."

She shrugged, and put her knees up in front of her. "I mean, I knew. It wasn't a _game _exactly, I knew that but...I don't know. He made it seem like it was the this big thing he wanted to share with me, and I liked that. And I liked that he trusted me, and you know, thought I was mature enough." She smiled again, but it didn't meet her eyes. "And afterwards he told me I was beautiful again, but not just that. He told me I was _special, _too. No one had _ever _said that before." She looked at him. "I really liked being special."

He gulped, and looked at her with wide eyes. "Then what happened?"

"Well, we started, you know, 'playing' regularly- my parents both worked, so I was always by myself after school. Uncle Lester told them he didn't like me being home alone so much, so he offered to pick me up from school every day and stay with me 'till they got home. They really appreciated that. I never told them, because I kind of liked having a big secret with Uncle Lester. I didn't like _doing _it very much, but I liked how special and important he made me feel. Like I was the most special girl in the whole world."

She hugged her arms around her knees, as though she was trying to shrink into herself, away from the story she was telling the memories. "One day when I was 14, my Mom came home early and caught us. Everything was different after that- Uncle Lester was gone, and I'm not sure how, but it seemed like everyone knew what had happened. And suddenly, I wasn't special anymore. No one was jealous of me- instead, they pitied me. I wasn't beautiful now, I was _pathetic- _the poor little girl whose uncle took advantage of her. I hated it, the pity. I wanted things back the way they were...but since my uncle was gone, I had to find someone else to play with...anyone else." She locked her empty eyes with his. "I just wanted to feel special again."

He exhaled sharply, and stared at her. "Lina, I-"

She shook her head, and held up her hand. "Save it, alright? It's your turn."

He nodded. "Well...I guess my story started when I was 13, too. I had always known I was gay, but I didn't know the word for it until then. I was watching TV with my Dad..."

* * *

><p>It seemed that there was a sort of mutual understanding between the two of them, after both their stories had been told. Lina looked at him, the vulnerability gone from her eyes. "We don't need to talk about this again." She said.<p>

He'd nodded, and they left the room together.

Marcel headed back to the boys dorm, an empty feeling settling on his shoulders. He thought about Lina's sick story, about her uncle...and how she said she'd loved him. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. How could she have loved someone who'd hurt her like that?

He stopped in the hallway of the boys dorm, and fell back against the wall for support.

_...is this how people think of me..._

It happened suddenly, no warning given at all. One moment he was leaning against the wall, feeling hollow and desolate and the next he couldn't breath. It felt like there was something pushing on his chest, restricting his lungs. He gasped for breath but could get none. The walls around him seemed to lose colour as he struggled to get control over himself, and his forehead began to sweat. He collapsed against the wall again, but it didn't seem to offer the support it had before. It barely even existed under him. _What's happening to me?_

He was terrified, on the verge of tears and the world that didn't exist spun around in front of him. Off in another dimension, a door opened and someone stepped out but it wasn't someone he recognized.

However, they seemed to know him. "Marcel?" The person asked, their voice thundering in his ears. He moaned, and put his hands up to block out the sound.

"Marcel, it's alright." They said. They reached forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

A abstract feeling of pain shot through him at the contact, and the world around him was thrown back into relief. He wrenched his body away. "Don't touch me!" He shouted.

"Sorry, I-" Michael said, drawing his hand back.

He gasped for air again, still shaking and sweating. He didn't know what was happening but he needed to stop _right now _because if it didn't, he was going to die. He was sure of it.

Michael hesitated for a moment, before putting both hands on Marcel's shoulders. Marcel flinched, but he didn't move away this time. "It's all right, you're gonna be ok." He said firmly.

"W-what's happ-ppening to me?" He whimpered.

Michael bit his lip, and looked around the hallway. "Come on," He said, leading Marcel to his room. Marcel followed, his arms wrapped around his shaking shoulders. Michael sat him down on his bed, and kneeled in front of him. He put his hands on his shoulders again, and rubbed his thumbs over them, as though trying to warm him up. "Marcel, you're having a panic attack. It's scary as fuck, but you're gonna be fine, I promise."

"A panic attack?" He said. "I- it feels like I'm dying."

"I know. Does it feel like something huge is crushing your chest, and you can't breath?" He asked. Marcel nodded. "What about nausea, or dizziness? Feeling terrified of something you can't explain?"

He swallowed. "No nausea...a bit of dizziness...lots of terror."

Michael nodded. "That's a panic attack. They're awful, but they can't kill you. You'll feel better soon, you just need to wait it out, alright?"

Marcel nodded. He already felt a bit better, though he still couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of terror he felt. As well, he was still struggling to breath.

Michael took his hands off his shoulders and stood up, then took a seat on the bed next to Marcel. "Sorry about that," He said. "I know you said not to touch you-"

He shook his head. "No, it's fine. I didn't mean that." He looked at him. "I don't want people to think they can't touch me, I- I like being touched. I mean friendly touches," He added quickly. "Hugs and stuff...they feel nice."

Michael surveyed him for a moment, before putting his arm around his shoulders. "This ok?" He asked.

Marcel nodded. "Yeah," He said, taking a few deeps breaths as the panicked feeling in his chest began to subside. He inched closer to Michael, until he was securely buried in the crook of his arm. "Yeah, this is ok."


	8. DisConnect

Chapter 8:

The day after his encounter with Finn, he and Paige approached Marcel, propositioning him for a game of "Go Fish." At first, he'd thought they'd been joking.

Now, he did appreciate that Finn had only been trying to help when he'd refused him, but that didn't make the shame he felt any easier to bear. And he didn't exactly appreciate Finn's condescending, old pro 'I've been there' attitude. Despite Finn's "loveable goofball" demeanour, Marcel didn't particularly like him. Underneath the goofball persona was a rapist, a monster and a definite ass. He could insist he was better, and so very sorry, but none of it changed what he'd done.

So Marcel really did _not _want to play cards with him.

"Do'ya have any three's?" Marcel asked Paige, staring glumly at his hand.

"No-ope." Paige chirped. He glared at her, and reached for the deck in the centre. This was Paige's fault. For some reason he just hadn't been able to say 'no' to her. For someone so tiny, she had possibly the biggest pair of eyes he'd ever seen, and she'd looked so goddamned _hopeful_, like there was nothing more in the world that she wanted, other then playing cards with him.

So they sat in a corner of the main room, playing a game that was going no where, on account of how Paige kept looking at their cards and cheating, causing Finn to reshuffle the deck every 5 minutes.

"Marcel-" Finn said, looking at his own hand. "Do you have any Ace's?"

Marcel swallowed a little, and looked down at his hand. He had two Ace's, actually. And two Jacks...a few Clubs. He shook his head. "No, go fish."

Finn reached into the pile of cards in the middle of them, and Marcel looked off to the other side of the room, where Michael was sitting and watching television.

"So...what about the guy by the TV?" Marcel asked, unable to stop himself from thinking back to what had happened between them the night before.

"Michael?" Finn asked. He nodded. "What about him?"

"He's not...gay, is he?" Marcel asked, trying not to let himself hope for a positive answer. Not that he liked him, exactly. He just thought he was nice, and really easy to talk to. And he liked to read, too. And his hair was nice- it was messy, but it looked soft...

Finn laughed. "He's spent the last 6 months calling me a faggot, so no, I don't think so."

Marcel tried not to let his disappointment show on his face. He shrugged, attempting to appear casual. "Never know...could be latent."

Finn furrowed his brow, looking confused.

"It means his secret gay-being powers have so far gone untapped." Paige explained.

"Exactly." Marcel said, shuffling his cards around a bit. He separated the Aces from the other cards, and put them up front. One was an Ace of Spades; the other, Hearts.

"And you intend to tap it?" Finn asked. Paige giggled.

Marcel shrugged again. "I don't know...he's cute. He's quiet. I like that." And there was what happened the day before...not much, just an arm around his shoulders and the reassurances that he would be alright but still...it felt like something.

"He doesn't smell like feet so much anymore." Paige said with a shrug. "And it's been a while since he's pinched me."

Marcel looked over at Michael, tuning out Finn and Paige. He didn't think now was the time to be making friends- or _more-than _friends, especially since he wasn't planning on staying long (if only that pit in his stomach would disappear- what might have been a seed of dou- no. There was nothing) Still, he found himself unable to stop looking over at him, through out the rest of their card game.

After dinner, Marcel wandered over to the TV area, and sat down on the arm of the couch. Michael turned, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, hey."

Marcel smiled awkwardly. "Hi..." He said quietly. He cleared his throat. "Um, whatcha watching?"

Michael shrugged. "Nothing, really. Nothing's on."

"Then why are you watching?"

He shrugged again. "Kills time."

Marcel nodded, and slid off the arm, and onto the couch. He put his feet up under him. There was a nervous tugging in his chest, and tried to tell himself not to say anything stupid. Or sexual. Michael was nice, and he was determined to have a _nice _conversation with him. "You could read, you know."

"I read at night, when I can't sleep. Which is a lot."

"You could read during the day _and _at night." Marcel suggested, raising his eyebrows.

Michel shook his head. "My attention spans not that great." He explained. "If I've been reading all day, I won't want to at night. And then I'll have nothing to do. I mean, you can't read all the time, right? You gotta have other interests."

Marcel paused. "Uh...no, not really. Not that I can think of." He said quietly. Michael raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Well, it's just._..before, _I didn't spend a whole lot of time doing things I liked doing...I did things my friends wanted. Went shopping, went to parties, fooled around with guys, gossiped...more shopping..._" _Marcel sighed, remembering the useless hours he'd spend in shopping malls, trying to pretend he could tell the different between the 50 different pairs of jeans one of his friends would be trying on. "Reading was sort of the only thing I had for myself."

"That's kind of shitty of your friends, isn't it?"

Marcel shook his head again. "It wasn't their fault- I never told them I hated shopping and stuff. In fact, I pretended to love it. There's no way they could have known."

"Why?"

"I wanted to fit in." Marcel said simply. "I mean, I was kind of a freak, right? What kind of a queerfag didn't like clothes, or simpering over celebrity couples? I was just trying to act like what I'd been told someone like me should be- a cocksucking fairy." He shrugged. "Seemed simple enough at the time."

Michael turned his whole body to face him now, and took his hand in his. "Don't call yourself that- _any _of that. Those words are shit, alright. And you're better then that." Michael looked him in the eye. "You're a lot better then that."

"What makes you say that?" Marcel asked quietly. He glanced down, noting that Michael was still holding his hand. The nervous feeling in his chest grew worse, turning into a strange fluttering feeling that made him feel slightly nauseous. But he didn't take his hand away.

"I dunno," Michael said, furrowing his brow for a moment as though he really didn't understand his own words. He shrugged. "You're like the only person in here who's not an idiot. I like talking to you," He admitted. "Which is something 'cause I usually hate talking. At all."

The fluttering feeling in his chest seemed to float upwards to his head, leaving his chest oddly empty feeling. Marcel took his hand back, and looked away. He felt odd, and slightly surreal.

Michael cleared his throat and sat up straight.

Marcel was quiet for a few minutes, staring off at the wall across from them. "...I like poetry." He said eventually. Michael glanced at him. "I know that's not so different from reading, I mean, you have to read poetry...but I like poetry. And reality TV."

Michael snorted. "You like reality TV?"

He smiled a bit. "Yeah. It's horrible, and terribly fun to watch. And you can make fun of all the stupid people."

Michael cocked an eyebrow. "So you like reality TV because you can make fun of it?"

"...Isn't that why everyone does?"

"Maybe- actually, that makes a lot more sense then people actually liking it." He picked the remote back up, and flipped through the channels. "Here- _Hoarders _is on."

Marcel's eyes lit up. _"_I love _Hoarders!" _He said excitedly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd watched that show. Or any show. "They have so much _stuff._"

Michael smiled at him, shaking his head. "Yeah, I think that's sort of the point."

As everyone does eventually, Marcel quickly fell into a routine. Each day, he spent most of his time with Michael, sitting on the couch in front of the TV. Despite Michael's claim that he didn't like to talk much, they would spend all day talking. They talked about books they'd read, and either loved or hated, television shows they'd watched as children (it turned out they were both Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle fans, and had both spent years longer then they should have devoted to the show "Beast Wars.") They talked about the subjects they'd loved in school (English and Art for Marcel, Lunchtime for Michael) and the ones they'd hated (Gym).

They had an hour long discussion about whether not vampires in the Ann Rice universe could get erections. Michael insisted they couldn't, which is why they never have sex. Marcel said they could, and they simply didn't have sex because none of them wanted to bottom. Bottoming was, after all, a pain in the ass.

They'd laughed for a lot longer then they should have over that joke.

When he wasn't with Michael, he was with Lina. As agreed, they didn't discuss their issues again. They simply rolled around on the floor, kissing heatedly while Lina stroked him off.

The rest of the day was divided by meals and trips to group therapy, and private therapy, both of which he spent entirely zoned out. He listened to what was being said to him, and gave vague answers, but he wasn't really there. He was somewhere else, watching what was happening with little interest, and wondering what Michael was watching on TV while he was in there.

For the most part, he was alright. It wasn't so bad here, he supposed. If he could just avoid talking about what happened, and thinking about it, he would be fine. He just needed to wait...wait it out.

What he was waiting for, he wasn't sure.

Night time was the worst. Night time was impossible. It took forever to fall asleep, and when he did it didn't last long. He had nightmares, awful nightmares reliving the first few months he'd been with them. Or his last day with them...when they'd left him. He tried to forget about that- their torture and those first few months- - had forgotten, during the day at least. He couldn't remember, wouldn't.

It wasn't exactly conscious, but in his effort to not remember the tortures he'd endured, he became determined to avoid any and all reminders. That meant Michael had to change the channel when any show or movie took place in a cabin. If any of the characters owned a dog, he changed the channel. Ropes or chains, he changed the channel.

Simply the sound of clattering cans was enough to send him into a fit, and the sight of them made him tense.

He didn't play cards with Finn and Paige again.

* * *

><p>It had been a week since he'd entered the bin, and evidently his therapist, Pete, had come to the conclusion that he wasn't getting anywhere. In Marcel's opinion, it had taken him long enough.<p>

Marcel stared off at the wall behind Pete's head, not really listening to what he was saying. Something about not dealing with his problems...dissociating...

"Marcel, _look at me._" Pete snapped.

The strength in his voice caught his attention, and Marcel cast his gaze over to his frustrated therapist. "For god's sake, I am _trying _to get through to you, and you're not listening to a thing I'm saying."

_No-ope._

"Marcel please, you need to try. Separating yourself like this isn't healthy- you're already detached from the world as it is, just by being here. You cannot afford to let yourself become detached from your feelings, and those around you as well. You need to make a connection- I'd like that connection to be with me, but I'll accept if it isn't."

Slowly, Marcel lifted his eyes up and looked at him. "You want me to make connections?" He asked. Pete nodded, and Marcel narrowed his eyes. "I _had _connections." He seethed, his voice seeped in venom. "I was connected with _them _more then I'd been connected to _anyone ever! _And you took me from them!"

Pete shook his head. "Those weren't connections, those were coping mechanisms for dealing with trauma. They were forced and artificial. I want you to have something real."

Marcel ground his teeth. "What makes you think I'm not connecting?"

"You don't speak up in group therapy, you don't talk to me- your father has been to see you everyday this week and you haven't let him in. Maybe if I knew a bit more about your relationship with him, I could understand why, but you haven't told me anything."

_And I'm not going to._

"I don't want to talk about my father."

"You don't want to talk about anything."

"Oh so you've realized that? Why are we still here then?"

"Because you _need_ to be."

Marcel stood up abruptly, not willing to listen anymore. Pete followed his lead. "We're not done here, you can't leave."

Marcel looked him in the eye, and anyone without years of experience dealing with patients like Marcel would have flinched from the cruelty in his gaze. "Then _force _me to stay, Pete. _Make _me."

Pete sighed, and Marcel tried not to smirk. "You can go."

Marcel left without saying anything else, and stalked back to the television area. He threw himself down on the couch, and crossed his arms over his chest. Michael changed the channel.

"So therapy went well then?" Michael asked, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Fucking cocksucking son-of-a-bitch, I hate him." Marcel spat.

Michael clicked his tongue. "Bad words. Angry words."

"What's your _point?_"

Michael shrugged. "He must be getting to you. S'good."

Marcel grabbed his shoulder and yanked Michael towards him. "He's _not _getting to me. There's _nothing _to get to. _I am fine. _Got it?"

Michael glanced at the hand on his shoulder, and then back at Marcel. "I can see that."

Marcel let go of him, and Michael leaned back on the couch. "You finished _Fight Club_ yet?"

Marcel gave a disgruntled snort. "I've been sort of distracted."

Michael nodded. "How are you liking it though?"

Marcel shrugged, shifting around on the couch. He didn't want to talk about books right now, he wanted to rant more about stupid fucking Pete and his stupid fucking glasses, and how he was obviously out to get him. "I don't know- I guess I just don't understand why everything is about some girl. A kind of annoying girl, too." He mumbled.

Michael turned to face Marcel, becoming instantly more animated as he spoke. "But it's not because she's a girl, it's because she's someone who _gets _him. Someone who understands him...someone who's _like _him."

Marcel raised an eyebrow. "Really, because I sort of got the idea that he hated her."

Michael shook his head. "Nah, he's just never met anyone like her- someone who he could actually connect with, for real. That's what freaks him out about her, and it's why he's always pushing her away. Because it's what he wants, more then anything- that's why he goes to all those group meetings, pretending to have cancer and stuff. He wants someone to talk to, someone to hold him and love him, even if it's a lie. But even though he wants it, when he finds it in Marla, it freaks him out. So he pushes her away, disengages and pretends he hates her. So that's where Tyler comes in. He craves companionship, but he can't let himself have it with Marla."

"So everything that happens is just 'cause this guy won't let himself connect with someone he likes?"

Michael nodded. "Connection is important. Connection to others is how we learn to regulate emotions and urges in ourselves."

Marcel raised an eyebrow, and Michael smiled. "At this point I'm just repeating the stuff they've been telling_ me._ Still true though."

He nodded, and rubbed his temples. He didn't want to talk about _connecting _anymore. He was sick of it. "_Extreme Couponing_ is on channel 9 now." He said quietly.

Michael changed the channel.

When it was lights out that night, Michael walked him to his room, despite it being far past his own. They stood there awkwardly for a few moments, hands shoved in their pockets, unsure what to say.

"I- um, I'm sorry about grabbing you before." Marcel said quietly. "I shouldn't have."

Michael shrugged. "So'k- I forgive you."

He gave him a tiny smile, relieved that he'd been forgiven so easily. "Thanks."

"No problem," Michael said, offering a returning smile. He put his hand on Marcel's shoulder. "You know if you ever wanna talk about things, about whatever happened or how you feel or anything, you can come to me right? We can talk?"

Marcel nodded. "I know."

"Good," Michael said, the corner of his mouth twitching again. The looked at each other for a moment, and Marcel thought he saw Michael's eyes drift down over his lips.

Their eyes locked again, and Marcel knew what was about to happen. His chest, stomach and head all fluttered together in nervous anticipation. He couldn't believe how badly he wanted this- wanted Michael to lean down and press his lips against him, to kiss away all the terror and heartache in his gut.

Michael hesitated for a moment, unsure of himself. He moved his hand up from Marcel's shoulder to his cheek, his touch apprehensive and careful, as though he was worried Marcel would break if he pressed too hard. Slowly, Marcel inclined his head a bit, in a small nod. "It's alright, go ahead." He whispered.

Marcel swallowed thickly, and leaned in. Marcel pushed up, standing on the tip of his toes to meet Michael halfway. Their lips met, and Marcel was surprised at how soft the kiss was- gentle, unassuming. He had been expecting something much rougher from Michael.

For just a moment, Marcel let himself forget about his past. There was no Jack, no Howie...no Ace. None of them had ever existed. No whips or chains...no pain. He wasn't a victim, he wasn't some emotionally damaged patient in a mental asylum. He was just a teenage boy, standing in a hallway, kissing the guy he liked. The only guy that mattered.

Michael's lips tasted like froot loops.

Michael pulled alway slowly, and swallowed again. "Holy shit..."

"Hey, what are you two doing up?" A voice behind them asked. They both jumped, and turned around. Robbie raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing, we're not- we're doing nothing." Michael said quickly. His cheeks were dark red, and he looked embarrassed. Marcel still felt a little dazed.

Robbie raised his eyebrows further. "Uh-huh." He said. "It's light out now so you know...bed time."

They nodded.

His hands firmly back in his pockets, Michael turned to Marcel. "Uh, so you know...night." He said quickly, and then rushed off down the hall.

Marcel stared after him for a moment, and slowly brought his hands up to his lips, which felt a little tingly. "Yeah...night." He whispered.

* * *

><p>Most mornings, when he woke up, Marcel lay in his bed for an hour before getting up and going to breakfast. That was how long it usually took for him to stop shaking, and force away the memory of whatever awful degradation he'd been forced to relive in his sleep.<p>

This morning he was up, dressed and out with in 10 minutes of waking up. His head buzzed with questions and worries, and awful predictions as he got ready- What if Michael regretted what had happened? What if he got angry at him? What if he yelled? Finn had been so _sure _he was straight...what if he wanted to pretend it hadn't happened? Would things go back to how they were before? His stomach sank at the thought of denying that kiss, the one that he could _still _feel against his lips even now...but he could live with that, he supposed. If the alternative was Michael not speaking to him at all, he would live with it, gladly.

He walked out into the main room, and his stopped in surprise when he saw the television area empty. Feeling slightly thrown off, he walked on, into the dining room.

Michael was the only one in there, and he went to take a seat next to him. Michael's head was down, hunched slightly over his bowl of Rice Krispies. Marcel wrinkled his nose- he'd always resented that cereal a bit, due to his inability to pronounce the word "Krispies."

Michael looked over when Marcel moved out the chair next to him, and his eyes lit up. "Oh, Marcel! Hi- hey, I mean. I mean, good morning."

Marcel smiled, his worries quieting a bit. "Hi."

"I didn't expect you- I mean, you're usually not up until later." Michael rambled.

Marcel shrugged. "Well, I sort of had something that needed to be dealt with right away so..."

"What's that?" Michael asked, honestly concerned. Marcel raised his eyebrows, and Michael's eyes widened as he realized."Oh, yeah," He said, laughing nervously. "_That._"

Marcel laughed too. "Yeah, _that._"

Michael nodded, and cringed apologetically. "I'm not usually like this, I swear."

Marcel put his hand on Michael's, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I know."

Michael nodded again, and seemed to calm down a bit. "So...do you want to talk about it?" He asked quietly.

"Yeah, that'd be good." He said. "I mean, we were kind of cut off yesterday so I never really got to see how you felt about it..."

"Whaddya mean?"

He shrugged. "Well, I mean I'm going to guess that was the first time you ever kissed a boy so-"

Michael looked a way, his cheeks turning dark and ruddy, just as they had the night before. "Um, that was the first time I kissed _anybody, _actually..."

Marcel's eyes grew wide. "Oh my god, _seriously?_" He asked. "That was your first kiss?"

Michael nodded his head, and seemed to force himself to make eye-contact. Marcel sucked his breath in a bit- he'd never noticed how blue Michael's eyes were before. They were dark, practically navy- but wide and clear. They were beautiful.

"Yeah," Michael said quietly. "You were my first kiss."

There was no warning. No build up- suddenly, the panic was back. Sudden and swift, just like before. Marcel stood up, knocking his chair over. "I- I can't do this." He stammered, backing away from the table. It was too much- too intense- what was this? What did he want? His first kiss- no. No, no.

"No, please, Marcel wait-" Michael said, standing up as well.

Marcel shook his head, feeling as though he was about to pass out. "No, no I can't." He said, tears forming in his eyes. The dining room, which had felt so pleasantly calm and cool only moments ago, was stifling hot now. The thick air pressed against his lungs, choking him. He turned to run, but Michael reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Just tell me what I said-" He pleaded.

Marcel shook his head, his skin burning where Michael held him. "Please let me go, please." He sobbed. Michael released him in an instant, and he darted out of the room.

He stumbled through the main room, into the boys dorms, not paying attention to where he went. It wasn't until he found himself once again outside Finn's door that he made himself stop. He fell backwards, unable to keep himself up anymore. _What am I doing here? Why Finn? _He didn't want Finn, he wanted-

"Michael," He whispered, seeing a blurry figure crouch in front of him.

"Had to make sure you were ok." Michael muttered, pulling him to his feet. "Even if you're pissed at me."

Marcel shook his head. "Not ok- not ok at all."

"Hey," Michael said, putting his hand gently on his cheek. His hands felt cool, comforting against his burning skin. "You know what's happening and you can handle it, right?"

Marcel nodded, trying to swallow but his throat was dry. "A- it's a panic attack." He said. Michael nodded. "It won't kill me, even though it feels like it will."

Michael smiled a bit. "Exactly. Come on, I'll take you to your room and you can lie down-"

Marcel whimpered. "I don't want to go to my room." He said, looking into Michael's navy eyes. It might have been the delirium, but for a moment he was sure they weren't navy at all, but indigo. "Please don't make me."

Michael furrowed his brow. "Where do you want to go then?" Michael's eyes clouded, looking past him to the door of Finn's room.

"Your room, with you. Like before." He begged.

Michael looked at him again and nodded, and took him to his room. They sat down on Michael bed, and Michael put his arm around him. Marcel let his eyes close, letting himself lean against the boy next to him.

"Take some deep breathes," Michael suggested softly. "Try and relax- tell yourself you're safe."

Marcel breathed deeply, and his nostrils filled with the scent of the fabric softener clinging to Michael's red flannel shirt. It eased into his lungs, opening them up and letting air in again. He sighed. "I'm safe." He whispered.

Michael smiled, brushing his fingers along the side of Marcel's face again. "Good."

Marcel breathed in again, not realizing as he pushed back against Michael, forcing him to lie down on his bed and lying on top of him. Michael just smiled more, letting Marcel fall asleep on him. "Good." He repeated.

* * *

><p>His therapy sessions with Pete were getting harder to ignore.<p>

"Marcel, don't you want to get better?" He asked.

_There's nothing wrong with me. Nothing that getting out of here won't cure._

"Do you want to be dealing with your trauma for the rest of your life?" He continued. "Because if you keep avoiding dealing with it, that's what will happen. You put it off now, and it will come back and smack you down even harder in the future. Is that what you want?"

_Why yes actually, that's exactly what I want._

Pete sighed, and took off his glasses, cleaning them on his blue button down shirt. He put them back on, and looked at Marcel. "Marcel, all I want is for you to talk to me. Tell me how you're feeling, what you're thinking. Anything. Anything you want to talk about- how do you like the food here? I get a lot of complaints about the oatmeal." He smiled.

Marcel shrugged. "Rice Kripsies are good."

Pete raised his eyebrows. "Rice _Krip_sies_?_"

Marcel glowered. Dumb stupid confusing word. "I can't say _Krispies _unless I think about it. Leave it alone."

Pete nodded. "Alright, I won't mention it again. But that's good- I'm glad you like the cereal. Is there anything else you like?"

Marcel shrugged again. "TV's alright."

"What do you watch?" He prodded.

"Reality TV, mostly. Sometimes movies are on...sometimes Paige puts on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and that's kind of good..."

Pete grinned. "Ah, _Paige._" He said fondly. "Not my patient, but I think I owe a great deal to her and how she's helped Finn."

Marcel made a face, and Pete caught it. "You don't like Paige?" He questioned.

"I don't like _Finn_." He spat. Pete nodded, not asking why. "He acts like he knows everything, like he's been all around the fucking block and it's fucking bullshit. Fucking prick..."

"That's an awful lot of dislike for someone you've just met."

Marcel eyed his therapist. "So what? I'm not allowed to hate a guy who raped his fucking brother?" He snorted. "Sorry but if _that _doesn't justify irrational hate then I don't know what would."

"So you think you're hatred of Finn is irrational?"

"What?"

"You said 'sorry but if that doesn't justify _irrational_ hate then I don't know what would.'"

Marcel ground his teeth. "I didn't mean that."

Pete raised his eyebrows. "Marcel, do you know what a Freudian slip is?"

"Yeah, when your science teacher asks you for the answer to question 14 and you say 'orgasms' instead of 'organisms. Can I go now? Are we done?"

Pete sighed. "No, we're not done...but you can go. I appreciate you talking to me, even for a little." He smiled.

Marcel shot up without another word, and went to go find Michael.

Michael's room was a different colour then his- mint green instead of powder blue. He decided he liked the green better.

He yawned, lying back against Michael's chest, and considered trying to go to sleep. Michael was a hell of a lot more comfortable then his stupid mattress. And he had the strange idea that sleeping with Michael's arms around him would keep him safe from nightmares.

"I'm sorry about before," Marcel said, tilting his head up to look at him again. Michael raised his eyebrows questioningly. "I mean, I'm sorry for freaking out like that. I didn't mean to I just..." He gave an apologetic smile. "I think I was _Fight Club-_ing you."

Michael nodded, seeming to get what he meant. He'd been pushing him away, running away from connection. "Am I Tyler or Marla?"

Marcel smiled a little. "Marla- but less annoying."

"Hey," Michael said, sounding wounded. "I _like _Marla, I think she's a great character."

Marcel frowned again. "Are you gay?" He asked.

"What?"

Marcel sat up, moving off Michael's lap. "I'm serious, are you gay?"

Michael sat up as well, looking confused. "I- um, I don't know."

"How can you not know that?" Marcel demanded. A voice in his head told him to stay calm- there were only so many freak outs Michael was going to be able to handle.

Michael shrugged, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't know, I mean I'm still getting used to not _hating _everyone. You're the first person I've ever liked."

"Liking people and being attracted to people are totally separate." Marcel pointed out. "You can hate someone and still want to _fuck _them."

Michael blushed again. "Well- well I never did before." Marcel raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, I spent most of my time wanting to-" He looked away.

"Wanting to _what?_" He pressed.

Michael shook his head. "Nah, never mind. I- you won't like it."

Marcel rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever." He surveyed him suspiciously. "There's really no one else you've ever been attracted to?"

Michael moved his shoulders up and down in a half-hearted shrug. "No one comes to mind."

Marcel chewed his lip. He tried to sort out how to deal with that. "Well, alright then." He said, closing his eyes and letting his head drop back against Michael's chest. Michael looked surprised. "I'm gonna take a nap..." He said, yawning and making himself comfortable.

"Really?" Michael asked, looking skeptical. "Just like that?"

Marcel shrugged. "Real tired."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Not that. I mean just like that, you're not angry anymore?"

"I wasn't _angry _exactly- just confused." He mumbled, and snuggled against Michael's chest, feeling himself drop off. "So, whatever. I might not understand it, but I'll accept it. Besides, you like me now, right? And I like you so...so that's what matters."

Michael nodded. "Yeah."

Marcel yawned again. "Night Michael..."

Michael smiled. "Night."


	9. How Could you Do It?

How Could You Do it?

Marcel smiled, watching as a bobbled-headed 5 year old threw a temper tantrum on stage, after losing the title of "Little Miss Sweetheart" to an equally bobbled-headed, but blond, 4 year old.

"She should have seen this coming," He said, shaking his head. "After she dropped that baton."

"It's official." Michael said dully. "The human race has no business existing as long as we have."

He giggled a bit. "You don't mean that."

Michael gave him a wry smile. He leaned over, and cupped a hand around Marcel's ear. "We're being spied on." He whispered.

Marcel furrowed his brow. "What?" He mouthed.

Michael pointed behind the couch. "Paige," He mouthed back.

Slowly, Marcel glanced over his shoulder and peered just a bit over the edge of the couch, where he could see the top of Paige's dark head. He rolled his eyes, and Michael shrugged. They went back to watching the TV in silence. 10 minutes later, Finn came over.

"Hey guys, watchya watching?" He asked, in a voice that made it obvious he'd only come over here to get Paige.

"Horror show," Michael replied.

Marcel laughed. "It's called _Toddler's in Tiara's_- it's amazing."

"It's trash." Michael countered. He shook his head. "I can't believe these people are allowed to exist."

"You know you could always turn the channel, right?"

"Marcel's watching." Michael said with a shrug.

Marcel smiled at him. "You can change it, if you want."

"Well, it's been nice talking to you guys," Finn said, awkwardly gesturing for Paige to follow him. Marcel wondered if he thought he was being subtle.

Finn walked away, and out of the corner of his eye Marcel saw Paige crawl after him.

Michael shook his head. "I can't tell which of those two is crazier."

"I'd say they're equally nuts. S'probably why they get along so well." He mused.

Michael sighed. "They're looking at us- _talking _about us too, I bet."

Marcel turned to glance over his shoulder again, but Michael stopped him. "Don't _look!_" He hissed.

"Sorry," He said, laughing. "I've always been sort of a dead cat." Michael raised an eyebrow, and Marcel laughed again. "Curious, I mean."

Michael smiled. "Right- because curiosity killed the cat- cute, very cute."

He batted his eye lashes. "Well, I try."

Michael fiddled with the remote. "What d'you think they're saying about us?"

He shrugged. "Probably that I'm trying to convert you."

"To what?"

"Gaydom."

Michael snorted. "Didn't realize it was a religion."

"It sort of is, I guess..." He said thoughtfully. "Except instead of worshipping a deity, we worship dick."

Michael burst out laughing, ducking his head a bit. "Heh...that's good."

"I try." He snuck a glance back at Paige and Finn, who were having an animated discussion while setting up a game of chess. "He probably thinks I'm just being a big creep, inching closer to you." He muttered.

"Huh?"

"I started the week off on the other side of the couch," He explained. "I started the _day _off farther away...now I'm right next to you."

Michael scratched his head. "Yeah...why is that?"

Marcel's eyes went wide with hurt. "Because I wanted to be closer to you..."

"No, no not that!" Michael said quickly. "I mean why with the _inching. _Just move next to me."

"Oh...well, I didn't know if you were ok with that. Like, out in the open."

Michael's brow furrowed again, looking confused. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"'Cause everyone thinks you're straight."

"Why would they think that?" He asked. "What have I ever done to make anyone think that?"

"Uhh...well, straight is just sort of the default, I guess. They assumed."

"Well, you know what happens when you _assume._" He raised his eyebrows. "You turn everyone into a donkey."

"You turn- what?" He began. _"...oh! _Because you make an ass of you and me!" He grinned. "Cute, very cute."

Michael shrugged. "I try." He said. He looked Marcel over for a moment, then lifted an arm up and slung it around Marcel's shoulders, pulling him in close. "That's better."

Marcel beamed a bit, and rested his head against Michael shoulders. "Yeah, it is."

Behind them, Paige gave an inhuman squeal. "I KNEW IT!" She shouted.

They turned around to find Paige dancing around excitedly, while Finn looked like he'd been slapped. Everyone else in the room was staring at them now, and Marcel blushed. He glanced at Michael, who was smirking at Finn, and smiled. He looped his arm around Michaels and went back to resting his head against his shoulder. Michael placed a kiss on the top of his head, and turned back around as well.

"Did you see Finn's face?" He whispered, looking up at him.

Michael nodded. "Fucking priceless."

"So Marcel, how are you feeling today?"

"I'm alright."

Pete's head snapped up, and he stared at him. This was the first time since he'd arrived that he'd actually received an answer when he'd asked him how he was at the beginning of a session. Marcel tried not to smirk at how it had obviously thrown him off.

"Is there something you want to talk about?" He asked.

Marcel shrugged, and he fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt. "Maybe."

Pete tilted his head and looked at him over his glasses. "Alright then, whenever you're ready."

He looked away, focusing on the adjacent wall. "...I think I might have made kind of a connection." He mumbled.

"With another patient?"

He nodded. He expected Pete to ask him "who" but he was silent. "Um, his name is Michael..."

"Michael..." Pete said, apparently trying recall who he was. "Is he one of Kay's?"

"Huh?" He said, looking from the wall to Pete, who was digging for something in his drawer.

"His therapist," Pete mumbled, pulling out a file. "Let's see, Michael...Michael...ah, I thought so. Michael Eisenberg." He put the file away and closed his drawer. "Well I don't know much about him, but hopefully Kay will be kind enough to brief me."

"Isn't there like patient-doctor confidentiality?"

"Sort of," Pete said. Marcel raised his eyebrows and Pete smiled. "There's a loophole in the contracts that allows for all the doctors and therapists at this hospital to collaborate with each other, and share patient information. Of course the individual therapists don't go gossiping around our patients private details but it means that if there's some reason she thinks you and Michael should be kept apart, she'll be able to tell me about it."

His eyes went wide. "Kept apart? What? Why-"

"Marcel, calm down." Pete said gently. "I'm sure it's _fine_, I just want to check. There are some patients here whom we feel it is best if they be kept apart as much as we can, I just want to make sure you and Michael don't fall into that category."

"I won't care." He said defiantly. "I won't stay away from him."

Pete smiled. "Interesting. This is quite the connection then, hmm?"

He looked away again. "I...I think I might like him, kind of a lot." He mumbled.

Pete nodded. "Good, that's very good."

"It is?"

"Depending on how your relationship plays out in the future, it could be." Pete said. "On the one hand, you're in a very vulnerable place right now and more susceptible to romantic mistakes- a lot of people tend to jump into unstable, abusive relationships after experiencing trauma-"

"Michael's not abusive!" He said shrilly. "He's the opposite of abusive! He's- he's _nice, _and understanding, and patient and like funny and sarcastic, and super easy to talk to and a completely great guy!"

"I never said he wasn't," Pete pointed out, "I only said that falling into abusive relationships is typical for those who've experienced trauma. They latch onto strong individuals who seem to be in control, hoping to be protected, but instead only find themselves further victimized. If what you say is true, then this does _not _appear to be the case with Michael."

"It's _not._"

Pete smiled. "Good. Then hopefully this will be a good thing for you- having a strong connection with another patient can be a useful thing. They can act as your rock, almost. And once you've begun to progress a bit more, you can be their rock as well. Speaking of progress," Pete said, switching gears, "How have you been sleeping lately?"

"...Alright." .

He hadn't been doing much sleeping at all, actually. He spent most of the night tossing and turning, flipping over from his back to his stomach, throwing his legs over the covers then pulling them back over him, trying to get comfortable on the shitty mattress. It was useless though, and by the time he finally drifted off it was usually 2 or 3 in the morning. And then, there were his dreams. They tortured him, his dreams. But he wouldn't think about that now.

"Really? No nightmares?"

"Nope." He said, looking away again. Now that they'd moved on from Michael, he was rapidly losing interest.

Pete sighed, sensing it. "What about your father? He came to see you again yesterday."

Marcel shrugged. His father was another thing he wasn't going to think about.

Pete studied him for a moment, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. He was determined to keep Marcel talking to him, even if they weren't discussing anything pivotal. "Michael-" He said, and Marcel looked back up. "Is he the boy that spends all day in front of the TV?"

Marcel nodded, and Pete gave him a knowing smile. "Ah, so _that's _what that conversation was really about."

He nodded shyly. "And the Rice Kripsies." He said quietly. "He was eating them yesterday"

Pete's smile faded. "So he's the only thing you've been talking about?"

"Basically."

He nodded, and scribbled something down on his notepad. "Marcel, now don't get me wrong I am very pleased that you've made a connection, but I don't want you to use this connection to avoid dealing with your issues."

Marcel chewed on the inside if his cheek. He didn't think he was doing that...exactly...

"It can be helpful to have someone to go through the recovery process with you, but you need to actually _go through _that process. Have you discussed your problem, at all?"

He shook his head.

"What about Michael's? What do you know about why he's here?"

He frowned. "Nothing...I don't know anything..."

"Well, I think that's probably a good place to start."

Marcel nodded, and quietly left Pete's office.

He wandered slowly out into the main room, and over to the TV area. Leaning against the back of the couch, Marcel took a moment to look Michael over before he noticed him. His hair, which Marcel was beginning to think hadn't actually seen a comb in...well, ever- was stuck up on the right side of his head, as though he'd run his fingers up threw it, and it had stayed that way. As he watched, Michael edged his teeth over his bottom lip, biting down slightly. Marcel smiled.

"So, guess nothing good's on, huh?" He said quietly.

"Nope." He mumbled. He turned and raised an eyebrow. "How'd you know?"

"You only chew your lip like that when you're bored." He said, raising his eyebrows in a knowing manner.

Michael's cheeks darkened a bit, and he glanced away, embarrassed. "I do?"

He nodded, taking a seat next to him on the couch. Michael put his arm around him, and Marcel felt something in his chest glow with warmth. He smiled, and reached up to smooth down the stuck up bits of Michael's hair. "Can I ask you something?" He said quietly. Michael nodded. "When was the last time you combed your hair?"

"Well, define 'comb.'" Michael said slowly.

Marcel felt his lips twitch in amusement. He wasn't sure why, but he was inexplicably pleased with that answer. "Take a comb, run it threw your hair- the teeth sort of pull at the knots, tugging them out."

Michael gave him a crooked smile. "Uh, in that case it's been a while." He admitted.

The warmth in his chest burned hotter, and he bit down on his thumb to keep from giggling as Michael ran his fingers through his hair, once again messing it up. "But I mean, I sort of brush it with my fingers in the morning so...that's something, right?"

He couldn't help it now, and a breathy laugh bubbled from his lips. Michael smiled at it. "It's something alright." He whispered.

Michael rolled his eyes. "Ah, shut up."

"You've never even used conditioner, have you?"

Michael raised an eyebrow, obviously having no clue as to the point of this conversation. "Uh, like shampoo?"

He giggled again. "No, conditioner is something else. You put it on after the shampoo."

"I know _that,_" Michael said, with another eyeroll. "I was just checking that that's what we were talking about...but no, I've never used it. Why would I? Fuck why would anyone? It's just another step- a _useless _step."

This shouldn't have been making him as excited as it was making him. This was strange, very strange- he didn't care though, because Michael was perfect. Perfect perfect perfect.

Hardly consciously in control of his own actions anymore, Marcel stood up and pulled Michael up by the front of his shirt. "We need to go," He said, pulling him towards the boys dorms by his wrist. Michael let himself be led, despite being extremely confused by what was happening.

He led Michael to his room and practically pushed him inside, and onto the bed.

"What's going on?" Michael murmured, as Marcel climbed on top of him, shoving his mouth against him.

"Mmm, what do you think?" Marcel replied, leaving a line of kissed down Michaels jaw before sucking at a spot on his neck.

"Uh, uh well I don't know," He said. "We were talking about conditioner, and now- oh _god._" He groaned, as Marcel's hand found it's way between his legs. He tensed a bit, and put his hand on Marcel's chest. "Can- can we just slow down a minute?"

Marcel paused, and leaned away from Michael, for the first time noticing how flustered he was. "What's wrong?"

"I just- I'm just really really out of my element, ya know?" He said quietly. Marcel could feel him rubbing small circles on his back, and he inclined his head a bit, pressing his forehead against Michael's. Even when he was shutting him down, he managed to do it right. "I just don't know what to do."

Marcel was about to ask what he meant, when it suddenly dawned on him. His head snapped up, and he looked at Michael with wide eyes. "Oh, my god."

"What?"

"Oh my _god._" He repeated, sliding out of Michael's lap.

"_What?" _Michael asked again, sounding self conscious.

He couldn't believe this was just occurring to him now. It should have when Michael told him he'd never kissed anyone before, but it was such an obscure concept to him, it just hadn't. "You're a virgin."

Michael blushed. "Uh, well yeah..."

"No, but like you're a _virgin _virgin- like you've never done _anything _have you?"

"Whaddya mean?"

Marcel leaned back against the wall, shaking his head. "Oh my god..."

"Stop saying that!"

He looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "What am I supposed to say? I don't know how to handle this!"

Michael glared at him. "It's not contagious or anything, you can calm down."

He put his hand against his forehead. "That's not what I mean, I just- I don't know _what _it means." He shook his head again. "I can't even remember the last time I met I virgin...and I've never fooled around with one before."

He hugged his arms around himself a bit, for the first time doubting their relationship. Doubting how much Michael liked him...how much he was attracted to him. He'd never done anything with anyone before, how the hell did he know what he liked? What if they started doing things, and he decided he didn't want a guy after all?

Michael slumped back against the wall. "Sorry I was too busy being crazy to get fucked." He muttered.

Marcel glanced at him again. His eyes were clouded over, and he had his arms crossed sullenly across his chest.

"No...don't say that..." He whispered. Michael looked at him, the look in his eyes softening as Marcel put his hand against his cheek. "It's fine, it's not a big deal..."

"Obviously it is." He said, giving him a pointed look.

He shook his head, and then wrapped his arms around Michael waist. He rested his head against his shoulder, and looked up at him with wide eyes. "I'm just being stupid, I promise."

Michael surveyed him suspiciously. "You sure?"

He nodded.

"...Alright."

Marcel smiled and lifted his head up for a moment to give Michael a quick kiss. He settled back down against him, and decided to change the subject. This one was making his head buzz. "You know, I realized today I don't know why you're here..." He began, glancing up to check Michael's reaction. His face was blank, but his eyes were still clear. He seemed to be considering this.

"Uh, well...I've got IED..." He began.

Marcel bolted up again. "_What?_"

Michael looked startled. "Uh-"

"IED like what Finn the _rapist _has?" He shouted. Why was he panicking so much? So his boyfriend shared a disease with a rapist- so that was fine. Super fine. Oh god.

"Calm down!" Michael said firmly, putting his hands on his shoulders. "It's _nothing _like Finn, I swear!"

He breathed out, and waited for Michael to explain. "IED is Intermittent Explosive Disorder, and mostly it means I get really, really angry, really really easily. And, you know how like when you're arguing with someone and you think 'damn I'd really like to punch this asshole' but you don't, because that's just not what people do?" He nodded. "Well I'm basically missing whatever part of your brain stops you from doing that. But I've been working really hard at getting better, and not getting so angry and shit and I swear, I'll _never _hurt you." He said, rushing the last part out without any pauses.

He nodded slowly. "But Finn-"

"Has like a weird sex-version of it. He gets- or, he used to, get really really angry really really easily, but then take out his anger in sexual aggression."

"And you-"

"Uh...well I used to hit people a lot..." He muttered, looking away. "Or knock things over...throw things...more hitting..."

He took a deep breath. "Alright. Good."

He glanced back up. "Huh?"

He smiled, and took Michael's hands in his. "I'm really glad you're not a rapist."

Michael looked like he had no idea how to respond to that. "I- yeah, I'm really glad too..." He said, obviously confused.

He kissed him lightly, moving so he was sitting in Michael's lap, between his legs. Michael kissed him back, tentatively, as though he was incredibly unsure of himself.

Michael flicked his eyes over Marcel's face for a moment, clearing his throat. "So, um...what about you?" He asked quietly, sounding almost timid.

"Hmm?" was all Marcel offered by way of response. He looked away, trying to pretend he didn't know what Michael meant.

"What's- I mean...why are you here?"

He bit his lip. He should tell him- this was good, they were talking...Pete would be happy...

He forced himself to look back up and make eye contact, taking comfort in the familiar deep blue of Michael's eyes, which were wide and concerned. He wanted to know what was wrong- he cared.

Marcel sighed. He recalled the resolution he'd made back in the hospital, to keep the parts of what had happened that no one would understand to himself. That seemed like the best thing to do now. Michael couldn't understand it- no one could...there was no point in trying to explain.

"Well...about 6 or so months ago I was...kidnapped." He began. He looked at the wall as he spoke, not wanting to see the different emotions in Michael's eyes as reacted to his story. "Um, a lot of it's hard to remember..." He muttered, squinting a bit, as he tried to see the fuzzy memories. Much of those first few months were barely blurs now, locked up in some box of things he needed to forget about. "There was a group of men, they kept me chained up..." He rubbed the scars on his wrists, the dull red bands that wrapped around them. He shivered, remembering the sting of the metal on his rope skinned wrists. "I...it was..." He shook his head. This was harder then he'd thought it would be. Harder to remember...to relive. He didn't like to think about those times...he preferred to remember the good- Stevie's laugh, and the ways the corner of Howie's eyes crinkled when he smiled...the scratch of Ace's five o'clock shadow as he lay on his chest...

A knot turned in his stomach, and he suddenly felt very exposed. He wrapped his arms over his shoulders, trying to cover himself up. It felt like something in his chest was going to fall out if he didn't hold it in.

A warmth grew around his arms as Michael wrapped his own around him and squeezed him tight. "It's alright," He murmured, pressing his lips against the top of his head. "I got you, you're alright."

He breathed deeply and let himself relax in Michael's arms, lying back against him. "I don't like to remember." He said quietly.

Michael nodded. "I won't make you."

He glanced up. "Really?"

Michael shrugged. "S'not my job."

He looked down again, wriggling a bit against Michael's chest, trying to get comfortable. "Pete wants to make me." He mumbled. "I know it."

"Well, that _is _his job."

"I hate him..."

"Yeah, but soon you won't be able to live without him." Michael said. He smiled when Marcel looked up at him, frowning. "Sorry, it's true." He patted him on the back. "You'll see."

That night, Sheila practically had to pry Marcel out of Michael's arms. He didn't want to leave, and seeing his reluctance, Michael didn't want to let him go.

Eventually Sheila won out, and Marcel had glumly traipsed back to his own room, to spend the rest of the night alone with his thoughts, none of which were currently pleasant.

Now that he'd brought up the memory of those first few months, they didn't seem to want to go away again. They were still blurry, and he _(begged Club,"Please, please don't do this...")_ only re-called vague snatches, sounds and pictures of events. But each jolted memory brought with it a flood of emotions and _(back pain- weeks tied to a dirty mattress...weeks left suffering on a hard wood floor) _feelings_,_ strong enough to knock him off his feet.

He sat on the bed, practically cowering in a corner, trying to hide away from the _(cans, the awful clattering sound- can's in front of his door meant he'd never see god again)_ memories.

Worse then memories of those first months, was how it seemed to blend with the memory of the things he'd considered Good. The way he'd felt when they held him, or kissed him or made him feel special _(Like Lina) _and loved. Because if they'd loved him...why? Why had they done those things? Why...how could they? How could they have hurt him, and loved him...and _left _him?

That was the final stab, the knife in his gut. Because they'd left him, after everything. He could forgive those first few months, if not for that final betrayal. How could they do that? After everything he'd given them..._everything. _He'd given them _everything. _

Was it guilt? Was that...had they wanted him to go back...that could explain the empty gun...

He wiped the tears off his face, and his thoughts turned to Finn, who'd tried to kill himself because of how he'd hurt his brother. Had he felt guilty? Had he thought his brother would be better off with out him?

How could anyone think that? They'd been everything to him, and now they were gone, what was he? What did he have left? Nothing. They'd used him up, and now he was empty...used...

He didn't remember walking to Finn's room. But he was there now, closing the door quietly. He knew Finn would oppose him, of course (fuck his guilt) but that hardly mattered. They'd left him when he needed them and Finn had left his brother and now one would pay for the other's mistake.

The bed creaked a bit as he climbed on, but Finn didn't wake up. He stirred a bit as he touched him, slipping his hand down inside his boxers...but it was a good few minutes before he actually woke up. The second he did, Marcel snapped his other hand over Finn's mouth, keeping him quiet.

He could see Finn looking at him through the dark, his eyes wide with shock. It didn't register, and he just leaned in close to his face as his pumped his hand up and down between Finn's legs. All that registered was that he was hard, and soon he would give him what he needed.

"How could you do it, Finn?" He heard himself ask. His voice felt disconnected from his throat, demanding to know how Finn could have abandoned his brother like that. It wasn't fair. You don't get to take everything from someone and then toss them aside. They were _yours _now and you needed to be there for them. He moved his hand faster, feeling the anger build in his chest and spread to the tips of his fingers. "How could you do that to him, Finn?"

Finn was struggling, denying he'd done anything wrong...asking him to stop. Please stop, he was saying. It was almost funny. Please. _Please. _He would have laughed if he hadn't been crying so hard.

It was so funny, and so terrible and so _pathetic. _Used and abused and tossed away like Marla Singer's Bridesmaids dress. * "How could you do that to _me?_"

"M-marcel, you need to stop _now_." Finn said weakly. "Don't d-do this to yourself."

He was just a comedian tonight, wasn't he? That was _so _funny.

He stopped pumping his hand, and gripped Finn's dick tightly. "How can I do _anything, _when _they _already did this _to me?_" He hissed. "When _you _did it?"

Finn groaned and wriggled under him, pathetic pained sounds slipping from his lips along with another useless apology. He was moaning about how fucked up he'd been, and them and this...he didn't register any of it until Finn uttered his favourite word again. "_Please!_"

His hand tightened, and he could almost feel Finn's dick _throb _under the pressure. He put his face close to Finn's, feeling close to ripping the appendage clean off his body. "No." He told him. _"You don't get to say please."_

_"What about Michael, Marcel?" _Finn wheezed.

He blinked. _Michael. _

"W-what would h-he think a-aa-bout this?_"_

What _would _Michael think about his hand on Finn's dick?

He let go, and Finn gasped in relief.

"Jesus, man..."

Marcel glared at him in the dark, and wiped his hand off on his jeans.

"Just...tell me how you could do it?" He asked stiffly. He put his knees up to his chest, and hugged them tightly. "I need to know."

Finn sighed. "I can't. Honestly, I don't know. There was something in my head, like a fog or shit, something that made it seem ok. Like it wasn't real. Like, his screams and cries were all a dream."

Marcel snorted. "Some fucking dream," He muttered, burying his head in his hands and sobbing. What was he doing? _What was he doing? _

"Marcel, what happened?" Finn asked. "You were fine before."

"Nothing happened." He said bitterly. "I just can't take feeling like this anymore- It's just- _all the fucking time._" He sobbed. "It's _clawing _and burning and I just feel so- so- so-"

"Horny?" Finn supplied.

The word wriggled over him, like a wet tongue trying to pry it's way in. He cried harder, overwhelmed by the crushing feeling of absolute _filthiness _"It's d-d-disgusting!" He cried, feeling himself shake violently. "I w-want it to go _away_. _Now._"

"I get that." Finn said quietly. "When I first got here, I spent hours in my room every day just jerking off and crying. It was awful. I would think about Kurt and _hate myself so much _for wanting him the way I did, even when I knew how wrong and disgusting it was."

He looked up at him, for the first time really listening to what he was saying. It sounded...familiar.

"I felt like shit, like a pervert," He continued. "...Which granted, I was. But you're not. I made myself that way, with my own fucking hate and anger and shit. You had this done to you. I know you feel disgusting, but you know you're not. And it'll get better."

He sniffed, wanting desperately to believe him. "_How?"_

"Um, well Paige sort of made it impossible for me to jerk off and think about Kurt anymore and I got sort of really frustrated, so I screwed Lina and then Paige and I made sort of a pact to get better- that and they upped my medication. So I have no idea, because I really don't suggest doing any of that... what are you doing in therapy?"

Marcel shrugged. "Just talking about shit. I'm on some medication but it's not gonna work for a while- they keep talking about re-conditioning and shit. No idea."

"Have you, um...talked to Micheal, maybe?" Finn said tentatively.

Marcel shook his head. "I don't want to." He put his head against his knees. He'd spoken to him about what had been done to him, wasn't that enough? What he was feeling now, that definitely fell into the category of things he wouldn't understand. "It'll just make him realize what trash I am sooner. Besides, I don't want to push it."

"Push what?"

"Him. He's never been into a guy before, I don't want to push it." He laughed humorlessly. "He says he was never into a girl either though, so who knows?"

"I think you should talk to him...You're not trash, not even a little. I should know, being trash myself." He smiled. "And if he's never been into a guy before, you've got to be really special, huh?"

He snorted. Yeah, real Special.

"Talk to him." Finn suggested. "Maybe- maybe he can help you. That's got to be better than me doing something. I mean, at least you like him, right?"

Marcel lifted his head up and looked at Finn. "I like him." He agreed. "He's- I've never." He shook his head, almost feeling like smiling. "I've never met anyone who makes me feel like he does."

Finn smiled, and put his hand on Marcel's shoulder. "I think he'll help you."

He frowned. "I don't see how he could. I only have 5 minute checks, that's hardly enough time to do anything..."

Finn opened his mouth to respond, but then paused, his mouth hanging open for a moment. "You only have 5 minute checks?" He asked frantically. He shrugged."Oh, fuck-" Finn said, just as his door burst open and Sheila and Robbie burst in. They flipped the light on, and Robbie sighed in relief when he saw Marcel sitting there.

"He's in here." Sheila called out to the hallway, and Carly poked her head in.

"I told you he would be." Carly said, smiling proudly. Sheila glared at her, and Carly pulled her head out and darted away.

"What the fuck, Marcel?" Sheila growled, glaring at him.

"I-I'm sorry." He whimpered, tears tricking down his cheeks again. "I j-j-just can't take it anymore." He hiccuped pathetically, and Sheila sighed.

"I know. I'm sorry you feel like this Marcel, and if I could make it better I would, but this isn't the answer." She said, gesturing to Finn. She turned to Robbie and instructed him to take Marcel back to his room.

Feeling numb, Marcel climbed off Finn's bed and followed Robbie out of the room. Robbie rubbed his back as they walked, murmuring reassurances.

"I'm sorry," He said quietly, wiping at his eyes again. "I don't mean to-"

"It's alright," Robbie said. "You're here to get better, remember? If you were already better, you wouldn't need to be here."

Marcel sniffed, and looked at him with round eyes. "Please don't make me go back to my room alone." He whispered. "I don't want to be alone."

Robbie furrowed his brow. "I- what do you mean?"

"Can I sleep in Michael's room?" He asked. "I feel better when I'm with him. Please?"

Robbie bit his lip nervously, and looked around the hallway. "Well...yeah, ok." He said. He put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. "Just sleeping, alright?" He instructed. "Sheila's gonna hurt me enough as it is, but I'm gonna stick my neck out and vouch your ability to be a gentleman, alright?"

He nodded, and Robbie led him back down the hall, to Michael's room. He opened and closed the door quietly, and then knelt down next to Michael's bed.

"Michael," He whispered, shaking the sleeping boy.

"Screw off," Michael muttered, swatting him away.

He smiled. "_Michael, _it's me."

Slowly, Michael opened his eyes, squinting at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing- well, something...they said I can sleep in here tonight. Is that alright?"

"Sure." Michael said, moving over in the bed.

He began to climb in with him, then realized he was still wearing jeans. "Oh, I don't have my pyjamas with me..."

"Borrow a pair of mine," Michael muttered, rolling over to face the wall. "Top drawer...the blue ones have pull strings..."

He had to flick the light on to find the pants Michael was talking about, and Michael swore and shoved his head under the pillow.

"Sorry," He said, cringing.

"You're just lucky that I like you," Michael muttered, his words muffled by the pillow on his face.

Marcel smiled and changed into pyjama pants, which were blue flannel and possibly the most comfortable thing he'd ever worn in this history of his entire life. He actually had to take a moment to calm down after he put them on, because he was pretty sure Michael wouldn't appreciate it if he came in his pants, no matter how much he claimed to like him. But holy fuck, these were comfortable pants.

He climbed into bed with him, still marvelling at how much he'd _missed flannel. _Why was nothing he owned this comfortable? Why did he own any item of clothing that _was not flannel. _

Michael wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close and burying his face into the crook of his neck. He smiled, and let his eyes close, letting himself fall away from the awful night he'd had, safe in the arms of his boyfriend and flannel pants.

*Fight Club Movie reference (I'm _pretty _sure it wasn't in the book). Marla tells Edward Norton that she got the dress she was wearing from a thrift store, for a dollar. It used to be a bridesmaid dress. Someone loved it intensely for one day, and then tossed it away like a sex crime victim, lying on the side of the road, underwear inside out.

So Marla says her dress is like Marcel, and Marcel says he's like Marla's dress.


	10. Never be Mine

**Never be Mine**

When Michael woke up in the morning, he didn't open his eyes. For a full 10 minutes, he lay there with his eyes closed. There was someone in his arms, someone's back pressed against his chest...he wanted to feel them like this for as long as possible.

He could feel him breathing. He thought if he pressed himself closer, he would be able to feel his heartbeat, too. That little _thud thud thud _that let him know he was alive. He existed. And in some small way, he was his.

His eyelids threatened open, obviously wanting to remind him that the person in his arms would never be _his- _not really. He couldn't be. Even if he liked him, and was with him now, he couldn't expect him to ever be his.

Still, it was easier to pretend with his eyes closed.

Marcel stirred in his arms, and made a sort of wet gasping sound. He started shaking again, and Michael's eyes snapped open. He'd been shaking and crying on and off during the night, but the difference now was he was awake. Michael opened his eyes and was met with a returning gaze, dark brown eyes filled up with tears and terror.

He considered brushing the tears away, but there didn't seem to be a point to that- instead he just lowered his head a bit, resting his forehead against Marcel's wet cheek, letting the tears fall against him as well. He squeezed him tighter. "What's wrong?" He asked.

"Nothing's wrong," Marcel said, wiping the tears off his face himself. "I always wake up crying."

"Why?"

"Because waking up means having to get through another day." He smiled as he said it, attempting to take some weight off his words but it didn't work.

He swallowed. "Really? You've got nothing to look forward to?" He asked. He felt nervous, sure that Marcel would look at him with cold eyes and say no, there was nothing. He hoped he didn't- he liked to think he was something, if only something small.

He lowered his head a bit, and put his lips against Marcel's neck, trying to imitate the wayMarcel had kissed him there before. Marcel closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "Maybe something..." He mumbled, and Michael looked up to see him wearing a small smile on his lips. He grinned, and this time kissed his lips. Marcel opened his eyes as he kissed him, and ran his fingers through his hair.

He tried to calculate how long they could do this for, before he would have a check- but before he could Marcel put a hand on his cheek, and pushed his head back slightly. "I have to tell you something."

He nodded, and sat up. Marcel did the same, and gave him the wide eyed look that meant he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear. "Is this about why you came in here, last night?" He asked.

"Sort of...I came in here because I was upset, and I needed you..." He said quietly, placing his hand lightly against his cheek.

Suddenly his thoughts were quiet, and the storm that always raged around in his head was gone. He'd needed him. He'd been upset and he'd come to him...

He was something. He put his arm around Marcel's shoulder, because whatever he told him now it wouldn't matter. It was probably stupid, but somehow, as long as he meant something to him...fuck the rest.

"I didn't mean to- I just get so _angry _about it all sometimes..." Marcel said.

"Trust me when I say you're not alone in that." He reminded him. Marcel nodded, and leaned against him. He held him tightly, trying to reassure him that whatever he'd done, it didn't matter.

"I went to Finn." He said quietly, his whole body rigid.

He was wrong. The storm back, raging around in his head. He felt his fists clench.

If Finn had hurt him, he was dead. He was going to rip his face off.

He took a deep breath, and reminded himself he didn't even know what had happened yet. He counted to 10 in his head. He liked Finn...he owed it to him to make sure that if he was ripping his face off, there was a good reason. "And?" He asked.

Marcel's shoulder's began to shake, and tears fell down his cheeks again. "I- I- kind of- I tried to-" He shook his head, and shut his eyes tightly. "I tried to jerk him off, first, but then when he wasn't like _responding _I basically just tried to rip his dick off-" He grabbed his shirt, and gave him a desperate look. "I'm _so sorry _I swear I didn't mean to I just got so mad about Finn and his brother and everything I just-"

"Hey, hey it's alright." He reassured him, pulling him even closer and holding him tightly. "I don't care."

"W-what?"

"I'm just glad Finn didn't hurt you, because then I'd have to kill him." He said, kissing the top of his head. He felt relieved, actually. He really hadn't wanted to kill Finn.

"But- but I tried to-"

"I don't care." He repeated. And he didn't. "This," He said, squeezing his arms around to his shoulders, "Is what I care about. Stuff like holding you when you're upset, or talking to you for hours about stuff I didn't think anybody else thought about, or having you fall asleep in my arms- I mean, that's the kind of stuff I care about. That's what this is about for me so...I don't expect anything else from you." He ran his fingers through his hair, because he didn't think he was making sense. He wanted him to know that all he expected from this relationship was that Marcel would be Marcel, and he would be there for him. Even if Marcel couldn't ever be his...he would be Marcel's. And he would be grateful for whatever Marcel gave him in return.

Marcel smiled at him, sniffing back his tears. "I don't deserve you." He whispered, pressing his forehead against him.

He grinned at him. "It's really funny that you think that."

Marcel shook his head, and kissed him. It was a long, slow kiss and Michael's eyes drifted shut again, as he let himself get lost in it.

* * *

><p>Marcel kept Michael's arms securely around his middle as he sat in his lap on the couch, torn between closing his eyes and going to sleep, and watching tv. On the one hand, he felt more relaxed then he had in a while, and he always felt so safe in Michael's arms. Even his back was hurting less, and all he wanted to do was curl up and nap, knowing that while Michael may not understand him or what he went through, he accepted him as he was. He wasn't sure anyone had ever done that before.<p>

But then on another hand, both Michael's and Paige's reactions to the show he'd been put on were proving to be too hilarious to miss. Paige had been sitting in front of them with her sketch pad all morning, drawing them with an absolutely entranced look on her face, but she'd actually put the sketch down now, and was staring at the screen with her already large eyes open as wide as they could go.

"What are we watching, exactly?" Michael asked, sounding slightly uncomfortable.

"The best show ever..." Paige said, sounding dazed.

The screen showed two men in the shower, one pressing the other- a shorter, younger looking blond, against the steamy glass stall as he kissed the back of his neck and rolled his hips against him.

"Are you sure you didn't accidentally find _porn?_" Paige asked, edging closer to the screen.

"I'm sure," He said, laughing. "It's called _Queer as Folk._"

"It doesn't seem practical, to do it like that." Michael muttered. He tilted his head to the side. "Or possible."

"Oh, Brian and Justin are very good at what they do." He smiled. "And by that I mean each other."

"Paige, you're blocking the screen." Michael complained.

Paige had her face pressed almost right against the TV, and she looked like she was about to reach out and touch it. Marcel laughed, and shifted around a bit in Michael's lap. Michael groaned, and put a hand sharply on his shoulder. "Oh god, _please _don't do that-" He whined, tilting his head back.

"Do what?"

Michael looked at him, his face flushed. "Like, _wiggle _like that." He muttered, avoiding eye contact.

"I can't wiggle?" He questioned, biting down on his thumb innocently (although now he could feel what the problem was).

"No, you can't." Michael replied, his voice low. "Not when you're in my _lap _and we're watching this goddamned show..."

Marcel chuckled and moved one leg over so that he was straddling Michael's hips. "Sorry," He said, winding his arms around Michael's neck. "It's a free country. I can wiggle all I want to."

Before Michael could protest, his head snapped back again as Marcel began grinding his hips against him, with slow deliberation. He put his hand on the back of his head and pulled it back up so he could look at him. Michael's pupils where blown out, and his cheeks were still flushed a dark red. "Marcel-" he gasped, his lips quivering as he struggled to speak. "We can't-"

"Not true." He whispered, rolling his hips against him with greater intensity. Michael groaned. "We just _shouldn't._" And they really shouldn't- Paige was right near them, and anyone else in the main room could come over at any moment. But he couldn't make himself stop- he didn't _want _to stop. Not with Michael making those perfect little whimpering sounds underneath him- it was amazing. He'd forgotten what it was like to have this much control over someone else. To be _wanted _like this. Especially by _Michael. _

He knew it didn't make sense, and this was a incredibly inappropriate place for this...but it was like he could feel a little voice in his ear whispering that if he could just make Michael come, it would somehow prove his gayness. Prove that he liked him, and that this wasn't a phase.

Michael's mouth hung open a bit, his eyes were shut tight as he groaned beneath him. Marcel brushed his own lips lightly over Michael's. "Come on," He whispered, brushing his mouth against Michael's lower lip. "You're so close...just let go..."

Michael's response got trapped in his throat, and he stuttered wordlessly as-

"Sweet Mary Murphy what the heck are you doing?" Carly cried, appearing a foot away from them. Both boys jumped a foot in the air, and Marcel attempted to scramble out of Michael's lap, but Michael pulled him back. Marcel had a flashback of being yanked back down on a dirty old bed by Club or Ace, and he curled back up in Michael's lap, suddenly terrified.

"What if Sheila saw you two! Or what if someone's parent had been visiting?" Carly scolded.

"We're sorry, Casey." Michael said. "It won't happen again. We just got carried away."

She sighed, and walked away, and Michael looked down at him. "What happened? Are you alright?"

He shook his head. "No...no."

Michael sighed. "These panic attacks come so fucking quickly..." He murmured, rubbing his back.

He peaked his eyes open a bit and glared. "Unlike _you._"

"Sorry- but this was a bad idea."

"Sure, sure...bad idea..I feel awful about it," He mumbled, wrapping Michael's arms around him and reconsidering his nap idea. He felt Michael run his fingers through his hair, and his eyes popped open again. "Wait...her name is _Casey?_"

* * *

><p>The next day, they sat across from each other on Michael's bed, their legs intertwined. Marcel was reading, and Michael was watching Marcel read, a small smile on his face. It would have been a completely wholesome scene, if not for the fact that Marcel wasn't <em>actually <em>reading anymore- he was staring at the pages, moving his eyes back and forth, but for the last 10 minutes he'd just been thinking. He was thinking about what Finn had said, about getting Michael to help him...and about the day before, on the couch. Maybe he'd been wrong...maybe it wasn't that Michael was unsure, or confused, maybe he was just insecure or shy. Maybe Michael wanted him just as much as _he _wanted _him. _

There was really only one way to find out.

He glanced up at Michael, who was still staring at him with a content look on his face. "You've got to be bored out of your skull by now," He said, closing his book.

Michael shook his head. "You look cute when you read."

He smiled, and looked at Michael from under his eye lashes. "Just when I read?" He asked softly.

"No," Michael said, glancing down. "Other times too."

Slowly, Marcel moved onto his knees and crawled into Michael's lap. "What about when I do this?" He asked, leaning in and brushing his lips over Michael's. He pushed his mouth harder against him, slipping his tongue inside, kissing him until they were both just short of breathless. He bit down gently on Michael's lip, and pulled away a bit, looking deep into his eyes. "Is that cute?"

Michael swallowed, his pupils beginning to grow large again. "I don't think cute's the right word..."

He grinned, and put his hands against Michael's chest. "How about _'hot.'_" He asked, kissing him again. Michael moaned in response, and he slid further into his lap, straddling his hips like he had the day before. "Or maybe, _'horny'_..."

He ground his hips against him, and Michael's head tilted back, his eyes closed in obvious delectation. His mouth opened and quivered as he struggled against himself. "Nnn- Marcel...we should- shouldn't do this, again." He mumbled. Marcel gave him another strong kiss, and Michael kissed him back, temporarily subdued. His eyes snapped back open, however, when Marcel let his fingers drift down to the zipper of his jeans.

He put his hand on his shoulder, pushing him back a bit. "I'm serious," He said, entirely out of breath. "We shouldn't."

"But I want you," Marcel whispered, going in for another kiss. At the last second, Michael put a hand on his chest, stopping him.

Marcel gave him a pained looked, and Michael moved his hand up to his cheek. "L-look, I want you too, Marcel...a lot, but we just _can't._"

"Why _not?_" He demanded, getting angry. He didn't see the problem. If the moved fast enough and timed it right, they could be done before Michael had a check. They liked each other, and they wanted each other and he fucking _needed _this. _What _was the goddamned problem?

"Because- you're not ok, right now. What happened to you- I mean, you know?" Michael said, obviously flustered.

Marcel set his jaw and slid out of his lap. "No, I don't." He muttered, pulling his knees up in front of his chest.

He put his hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, but it's for the best and shit."

"That's such bullshit," He snapped. Michael looked hurt, and he glared at him. "I mean, what's the point of _any _of this if you won't fuck me?"

He regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth. Michael looked like he'd been slapped across the face, and he shrank away from him. "No, Michael I-" He tried, reaching out towards him. Michael yanked his arm away, his usually beautiful blue eyes looking almost black. The dark look in Michael's eye scared him a bit, and he stay rooted to the bed as Michael got up and went over to his dresser, leaning against it for support.

Marcel jumped, as Michael suddenly shoved everything on top of the dresser on the the ground, then resumed his death grip on the edges.

Slowly, feeling a bit frightened, he picked himself up off the bed and went over to Michael, putting his hand on his shoulder. He could feel it shaking violently under his grip, and before he could say anything Michael smacked his arm away and ran out of the room.

Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he wrapped his arms around himself. What had he just done?

* * *

><p>It was too much. Too much too fast. He hadn't felt this in months, the boiling anger that took over and destroyed him from the inside out. It's return, and the sheer strength of it, was a shock to his system. He could feel it in his veins, pulsing around his body in the tips of his fingers and making the ache to curl up into a fist and <em>pulverize <em>something.

He stumbled out into the main room, looking around desperately for someone- anyone. He couldn't stop it for much longer-

He spotted Sheila, and he rushed over to her, grabbing onto the front of her scrubs. "Sheila, you gotta put my in solitary fucking now!"

"What?" She asked. Another painful jolt burned threw him- she wasn't understanding. _Now. _He needed to get out of here _now._ He fell away from Sheila, tearing at his hair to try and relieve the tension- god it was too much-

He screamed in frustration. "YOU NEED TO PUT ME IN GODDAMNED SOLITARY, FUCKING NOW!" He shouted, smashing his fists into a small bookshelf and knocking it over. He pulled at his hair again and doubled over, trying to keep it in but it burned so bad...

Sheila grabbed him and began pulling him out of the room, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Finn watching. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in a much calmer place he couldn't really access at the moment, he realized that Marcel was probably going to go to him, if he was upset. "Finn, don't let him see me like this, okay?" He pleaded.

Finn nodded, and he let Sheila drag him the rest of the way out of the room, and down to solitary. She opened the door up and he rushed inside, falling against the white wall. His nails scraped against it as his hand balled itself into a fist.

Hot, angry tears formed in his eyes as his shoulders began to shake harder. There was no feeling in the world worst then this, this hot convulsing anger that he could feel- physically _feel, _all through out his body. It knotted up his stomach and turned his chest into an empty cavity of dead space, sucking in the rest of him like a vortex. He'd do anything to get rid of it, anything at all.

The anger pumped through out his arms, urging him to take action- make it stop, please make it stop. It had to stop, he couldn't take this anymore-

He pulled his arm back and smashed it into the white solitary wall. He could feel the plaster caving in around his fist, almost melting against him as he forced his hand through it. His fist connected with something hard and it felt like someone had taken a hammer to his knuckles but somehow it didn't register. He pulled his hand back, ignoring the blood and plaster smeared over it and fell away from the way, turning around dizzily to find something else to smash and destroy, something to channel the pain into before it killed him.

None of it helped- not tearing at the bed sheets or ripping the bed out from the bolts that held it to the wall. Not screaming or smashing his fists and tearing at his hair. None of it helped none of it- maybe if he smashed his head into the wall next. Smashed it until his brains turning the white walls grey or purple or red. That would make it stop that would-

He feel back against the wall, exhausted. He sunk down and put his head against his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. The pain was still there but the looseness in his limbs made it feel tolerable.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that, huddled on the floor with his head in his hands, trying to focus on the blank void of the room around him instead of the blank void in his chest.

After a while, he heard a creaking sound and looked up to find Marcel tentatively entering the room, a first aid kit clutched in his hands. He groaned, and shrank further into himself, burying his head back behind his knees. Marcel couldn't be here- couldn't see him like this. Shouldn't be near him now either- if he ever hurt him...

"Alright, I'm staying right here the entire time." He heard Sheila say, closing the door behind Marcel and speaking through the small window on it. "You just say when you want to come out, and Michael, if you feel like you're about to lose it again you tell me, and I'll pull him out."

He nodded numbly, still not looking up. "You did good before."

"'Well'." He mumbled under his breath, then cringed at himself. He hated when people corrected his grammar, which wasn't great...he hoped Sheila hadn't heard.

He could feel Marcel take a seat next to him on the floor, and he waited for him to say something. Was he going to apologize? Was he going to tell him they shouldn't be together anymore?

His stomach flipped at the thought- but if the only thing he wanted from was sex, and he wasn't going to get that...

His chest tightened and he willed those thoughts away.

He'd been such an idiot, thinking he could ever like him like that- it wasn't his fault, after what he'd been through of course but still...it hurt.

He felt Marcel lift up his hand and he held his breath. His hands were cold, and felt an overwhelming urge to take them in his own and warm them.

"This might sting a bit..." He whispered, taking out an antiseptic towelette and running it across his bleeding knuckles. The alcohol stung and burned, but once again he didn't really connect with it. Marcel looked surprised. "...Guess not."

"No, it stings like a bitch." He muttered.

Marcel remained silent as he cleaned up the wound and began winding gauze around it. Sitting in the silence, he couldn't help but be aware of how red Marcel's eyes were, or the way his t shirt was stretched out around the hem, as though he'd been pulling at it.

He'd been crying. About him. He hated that, he didn't want him to cry. He hated all of this- this silence, neither of them knowing what to say. He couldn't take it. He looked ahead, his head tilted down slightly. "Aren't you going to say something?"

"I want to," Marcel said quietly. "But nothing sounds good enough." He stuck a piece of tape down on the gauze, and rubbed his thumb over it to make it stay. "What should I say?"

He kept his eyes down. He didn't know why he felt afraid to look at him, but he did. "Say whatever you want."

"I don't know how." Marcel said, sounding pained.

He stiffened as he began fiddling with the collar of his shirt. The fear tightened in his chest. He sounded so sorry...but what if he looked, and there was nothing on his face, or in his eyes? What if it was an act...what if it had all been act...

"I mean, I don't know how to tell you what I want to say and make sure you believe it." He continued, and his hand dropped down to his knee. "I want to tell you that I didn't mean what I said, first I guess. I don't care about that stuff- no, I do...but that's not why I'm with you. Not at all."

He couldn't stop himself any more, and he looked up. Marcel's eyes were wide and glossy, and he looked just as sorry and desperate as he sounded.

He still couldn't relax.

"Then why are you with me?" He asked, voicing a concern that had been on his mind since they'd begun their relationship. "I mean, I don't really think I'm the kind of guy you'd go for..."

"You're not. At all." Marcel said quickly.

He raised an eyebrow- Marcel had an odd way of making him feel better, if that's what he was trying to do.

"You actually have nothing in common with any guy I've ever gone after...especially since I actually like you." He went on. Michael thought he felt his heartbeat speed up. "I guess that's the reason I'm with you. It seems kind of obvious, but it's pretty new for me. Liking someone for who they are. Liking someone for the way they make you feel when they look at you, like you're more than just a vehicle for getting off. You're the first guy I've ever met who's talked to me about the books and authors I like, like you actually care what I think."

"Of course I care what you think." He said instantly. "You're way fuckin' smart...and insightful. It's like you can tell exactly what the author was feeling when they wrote something, and you connect with it. It's amazing." He cast his eyes downward again. "I don't connect with anything."

"We're not connecting?" Marcel asked. He felt him put his hand against his cheek, and brush away piece of hair. He looked back up, his heart thumping painfully against his ribs.

"I thought we were." He said quietly. "I thought- thought you liked me."

"I do. We are." He insisted. He leaned in to kiss him, and his lips burned at his touch. The knots that had been twisting around in his bones loosened and broke, and he pulled Marcel closer to him. He was still getting used to that- that feeling of fire in his chest that made him want to touch and kiss him every where and never, ever stop.

They pulled away slowly, and he saw Marcel glance behind him at the mess he'd made. "Nice job on the wall there." He said quietly, his pinks lips curved into a small smile. "So you're real fucked up, huh?"

Michael felt his face turn red. "I guess so." He mumbled, shrugging self consciously.

Marcel stood up and he offered his hand to him. "It's ok, I'm kind of fucked up too."

He took it, and pulled himself up. There was airy feeling in his head, a relief that everything was alright. They were all right.

He looked Marcel over, and raised his eyebrows. "Only kind of?" He teased.

Marcel reached over and flicked him on the ear, and he grinned. He pulled him into his arms and kissed him again, harder then before.

Behind him, he heard Sheila sigh and unlock the door. "You two can come out when ever." She mumbled, walking away.

He leaned away and looked down into Marcel's eyes, running a finger along his cheekbone. "I'm sorry I freaked out at you," He said quietly.

Marcel shook his head. "No- I never should have said something so awful. And untrue."

He took in a deep breath. As long as it wasn't true, he didn't care. He kissed him again. "It's fine."

"It's not fine, I- I'm gonna talk to Pete about it, I promise." He said quietly, hugging his arms around him.

Michael felt his eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. "You hate talking to Pete."

"I hate what I said to you more."

He swallowed. "Marcel, I..." _I just want you to be ok. _

"Yeah?"

"I..." _I'll never hurt you again. _

Marcel raised his eyebrows.

"I..." _I love you. _

Shit. He couldn't say that- any of that. It would freak him out- fuck, he was freaking himself out. Feelings...having them for someone...it was weird.

"Michael?" He said, obviously wondering why he was being oddly quiet.

He smiled, and kissed him on his forehead. "I'm glad we're ok."


	11. Please don't Say That

**Please don't Say That**

Marcel ran his hands over Michael's chest, kissing him slowly. He may have given up attempts at getting into his pants, but that didn't mean he was giving up on getting under his shirt. He began to slip underneath it, and managed to brush his fingers over an inch or so of smooth skin before Michael pushed his hand away again. Marcel groaned. "Errg, come on," He prodded, still kissing him intently. "Lemme see it."

"Gotta buy me dinner first," Michael mumbled, grinning crookedly before kissing him again. Marcel fought down a smile of his own, not wanting to encourage him.

Marcel put both hands on his chest, and trailed them down lightly. "But I'm your boyfriend," He said softly, brushing their noses together and keeping eye contact. "I have a right to your chest."

Michael blinked a few times, and got the look on his face that meant he didn't know what to say. Marcel smirked and went into kiss him again, but Michael moved his head back, and put a hand on his chest to stop him.

Marcel sighed. "What?"

Michael looked down for a moment, then slowly lifted his eyes back up. "Are you really my boyfriend?" He asked quietly.

"Of course," He said, running his fingers through Michael's hair. "What else would I be?"

"I dunno," He mumbled, shrugging his shoulders. "I wanted you to be, but I thought we might have to actually be dating first, before it was official."

Marcel shrugged. "Technicalities. I'm your boyfriend, and you're mine...and I want you." He whispered, leaning back in. Michael didn't move his hand, and Marcel groaned again.

Michael lifted up his other hand, and put it gently on his face, rubbing his thumb back and forth over his cheekbone. "Before I say this, you should know that fireworks have basically been going off in my head since you said you were my boyfriend," He said, smiling sheepishly. Marcel smiled back, and waited for the part he knew he wasn't going to like. "But you know that doesn't mean you've got rights to my body, right?" He said, raising his eyebrows. "It doesn't work like that."

Marcel sat back on Michael's thighs as he straightened up, and Michael put his arms around Marcel's waist as he continued to speak in a soft voice. "You don't have a right to anyone's body but your own, and no one has a right to your body but you. See?"

Marcel nodded slowly. He guessed he knew that- he wasn't sure he _believed_ it, but he knew it. Marcel couldn't actually remember a time where his body had belonged only to him, and not to whoever wanted it. Even before Jack had taken him away, "no" had still been a rarely used word in his vocabulary.

But he knew that wasn't the way it was _supposed _to work...and now something was becoming very clear to him. "Oh god, I'm _that _boyfriend, aren't I?" Marcel asked, feeling a little stunned.

Michael furrowed his brow. "Uh, what boyfriend?"

"The one who pressures you into doing things that make you uncomfortable and can't keep their hands to themselves- oh my god, I can't believe I'm that person." Marcel put his hand over his mouth. "I'm such a slut."

"No!" Michael protested, his eyes wide. "No- fuck not at all! Look it makes sense, right? I mean, when was the last time anyone let you have any boundaries?"

"Boundaries?"

"You know, lines that can't be crossed. Like 'you can do this, but not this' and so on."

Marcel frowned. "I once refused to give this guy a rim job- does that count?"

"Yeah, sure." Michael replied. He paused. "What's a rim job?"

Marcel bit his lip. "Uh...s'not important."

Michael nodded. "Alright." He said, leaning in to kiss him again. Marcel wrapped his arms around Michael's neck to keep them from wandering, wondering why no one had ever told him he was allowed to have boundaries before.

* * *

><p>Michael drummed his fingers on his knee, nodding as he listened to his grandmother tell him about her friend Estelle's new haircut, which supposedly made the 76 year old woman look like a "hot tamale" (her words).<p>

"Mom, Michael doesn't want to hear about friends haircuts." His own mother teased.

"I know that!" She exclaimed. "Don't you think I know that? I can see- he's wearing his 'someone kill me face.'" She smiled at him, the skin around her eyes crinkling up so it looked as though she was squinting.

Michael smiled. "Bubs, you think every face I make is my 'someone kill me' face." He pointed out.

"That's because you always look like you want someone to come and put you out of your misery," His grandmother accused, pointing a finger at him.

"Hey Michael!"

Michael turned around, hearing someone shout his name, and saw Marcel standing by the entrance of the boys dorms, glaring at Lina. Michael smiled, and quickly glanced at his mother and grandmother- this was the first time they'd visited since Marcel had arrived.

_Well, _he thought, standing up and walking over to him, _guess it's time everyone got introduced. _

He could see that Marcel was nervous, but Michael grabbed his wrist and pulled him over anyways. He'd said they were boyfriends, and meeting the family was just something boyfriends had to do. To his credit, Marcel didn't put up a fight, allowing himself to be led.

"Mom, Bubby," He said, standing behind Marcel with his hands on his shoulders, "this is the boy I'm falling in love with."

A chorus of 'awwws' sounded from his left, and Michael turned to see Finn, Lina and Paige all sitting together at a table, a board game out in front of them in a shitty attempt to make it look like they weren't spying. Behind them, Robbie and Casey had stopped whatever they'd been doing and were also looking over at them, wearing expressions on their faces just like the one Paige always made whenever a character on a TV show she liked said or did something sweet.

He shook his head at them, and looked back at his mother and grandmother to assess their reactions. Both their mouths were hanging slightly open, and their eyes were wide with what looked like shock.

Michael figured it could have been worse.

"Um, hello..." Marcel said meekly, his voice doing that thing where it suddenly got a lot higher and girlier. Michael wasn't sure if he did that on purpose, or if it was just something that happened, but he'd been meaning to asking him about it for a while.

"Hello." His mother replied. Out of the two of them, she seemed to be doing the best. She mostly just looked stunned, which Michael thought he could work with. His grandmother on the other hand, looked vaguely nauseous now.

"It's um- it's nice to meet you..." Marcel continued, squeaking his words. Michael squeezed his shoulders reassuringly.

"Wanna sit down?" Michael offered, turning him around so they were facing each other. He tried not to laugh at how bright red Marcel's face was, but it was hard.

Marcel shook his head. "No, I was taking a nap..."

"Really?" Michael asked, raising an eyebrow. "On an actual bed?"

"Shut up," Marcel muttered, shoving his shoulder back playfully and suppressing a smile. "When you get to be tired enough, you stop noticing how crappy the mattresses are, ok?" He gave in and grinned, then reached up and kissed Michael quickly on the cheek, shot a nervous smile towards his family and ran off to the boys dorms.

Michael smiled after him, and sat back down. His mother and grandmother stared at him. He just looked back, calmly.

Eventually, his mother broke the silence. "So- that was...I mean..." She furrowed her brow. "When-?"

"He came here about a month ago," Michael explained. "He was uh, reading the book I wanted and we kinda talked..." He shrugged.

His mother nodded, still looking very confused. "I just, well I...I didn't think you were-"

"Gay?" Michael supplied. She nodded. "Yeah, I didn't think I was either...actually, I didn't think I was anything. I mean, I've never really gotten a long with other people before- I think the closest thing I ever had to friend growing up was that week me and Jimmy Howlett beat each other up everyday afterschool..." He put his hands on the table, and looked at both his grandmother and his mother. "Marcel's the first person I've ever, you know, felt something with. I _get _him, you know? And he gets me and...and I love him." Michael shrugged. "I just love him."

"Well..." She said, looking hesitant. "He seemed very nice."

Michael gave her a small smile. "Yeah, he is."

She smiled back at him. "I'm glad."

Michael turned to his grandmother, who still hadn't said a word since Marcel had come over. "Bubs?" He said nervously. "You ok?"

She looked away for a moment, then back at him. "You've had a- a difficult life, Mikey..." She said slowly. "All those fights, all the anger...it's been hard for all of us." She glanced at his mother, who still had the results of his anger scarred on her body.

"I know, Bubs."

"But it's also been hard to watch my grandson be so miserable all his life." She reached forward and put her wrinkled hands on his. "So Mikey, if this boy makes you happy- _finally- _then he's welcome to the family."

Michael grinned, surprised by how relieved he felt. He hadn't realized how much he cared about what his family thought. "Thanks Bubby," He said, and she squeezed his hand. He looked at his mother. "I'm glad you guys are okay with it...because I was sort of hoping you could tell Dad for me."

* * *

><p>Marcel lay back on his bed, and stared up the ceiling. It had been a while since he'd felt this empty- this lifeless.<p>

He didn't know what to do. Somehow, Michael was falling in love with him. Why?

_How?_

He didn't understand. He couldn't wrap his mind around it, not after what happened. How could he? The last people he'd thought loved him had hurt him so badly- he was beginning to think they'd hurt him even more then he realized. What they'd done to him- it was all so confusing now. The way they'd hurt him, loved him, and left him...the way he'd feared them, but at the same time needed them, and loved them. Or, thought he'd loved them. He didn't know now- he was too confused, about everything. It had all seemed so simple once- his days had consisted of sleeping and reading, dealing with whatever one of them wanted from him, occasionally making love to Ace. He hadn't worried about anything, he'd never had headaches like this...

Not for the first time, he wished he'd never been rescued. He knew that was a terrible thing to think- a horrible, perverted thing, but he couldn't help it. Couldn't help but think everything would have been so much simpler...

Marcel closed his eyes, and imaged what that would be like- if they'd never left him, and he'd never been taken away...he and Ace would have gone away together. Maybe they'd be on the road now- Ace driving, him attempting to navigate. Knowing Ace, they wouldn't have even bothered with a map...they would have just driven, and wound up wherever.

Abruptly, and without his permission, his mind flashed back to the time Ace had caught him trying to escape. He shut his eyes tightly, not wanting to remember the way he'd thrown him up against the wall and threatened to kill him. He didn't want to remember that, how scared he'd been- how he'd wanted to die but at the same time been _so terrified _that Ace was really going to kill him.

He put his hands on his head, determined to remember no more. Without even realizing, he had curled himself up into a ball on his bed, and he hugged his knees close to his chest.

Marcel cried himself to sleep that night, unable to shake the memories of things that had been done to him by a man he thought he loved. Who he thought had loved him. It was so painful...he didn't want it to happen again.

He didn't want to be loved again.

* * *

><p>Someone was knocking on his door.<p>

Marcel kept his eyes closed, and sunk tighter into himself.

There was only one person who would be knocking on his door. All of the orderlies had a key.

After a minute, the knocking stopped and Michael left. Marcel felt his shoulders shake, and he began to cry again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I'll make it up to you in the next couple of days. **


	12. Avoidance

**Avoidance **

Marcel slept in the next day, and it was well past noon by the time he finally got up and ventured out of his room. Noon was when he knew Michael would be in therapy.

Marcel told himself he wasn't avoiding him, exactly...he was just too tired to see him right now. It would be better if he didn't.

Just as he stepped out of the boys dorms, Lina slammed into him and pushed him back inside. "OhmygodMarcel guesswho'shere!"

"What?" Marcel asked, still groggy.

"_Guess who's visiting Finn?_" She cried.

Marcel's eyes went wide. "His stepbrother?" He asked. He didn't know why, but suddenly he felt anxious. Finn's stepbrother was someone who'd gone through the same thing as him- well, a similar thing. Maybe he would understand-

"No not _him,_" Lina said, and Marcel's shoulders sank. "Actually I don't know _who _they are but one of them is _gorgeous._"

"Alright, lemme see..." Marcel mumbled, and then slowly looked around the corner into the main room. He could see Finn sitting at a table near the back of the room, his back to them. Across the table were two boys, and Marcel could instantly tell which one Lina had been referring to. The guy with the light brown/dark blond hair, and big pouty lips. Of course he agreed, he was very good looking...but Marcel wasn't interested in him.

Instead, he was interested in the bigger guy next to him, who's head was tilted downwards as he looked timidly up at Finn. He didn't know what it was...but there was something about him that was making Marcel weak in the knees. "Oh _god..._"

"Right?" Lina said giddily, obviously assuming he was talking about Pouty Lips.

"Do you think those are his friends?"

Lina snorted. "Yeah like Finn has friends, I'm sure..."

"You don't know," Marcel said slowly, watching Mr. Timid fiddle nervously with his hands on the table. God his hands were huge... "You have no idea what he was like before he came here...maybe he was the kind of person who no one knew was really a crazy rapist. Maybe he was incredibly popular."

Lina didn't look convinced, but didn't bother arguing with him. Obviously she had other things on her minds. "Let's go get introduced."

Before he could protest, Lina grabbed his wrist and pulled him out into the room.

Marcel kept his eyes locked on Mr. Timid as they walked over, raking his eyes over his broad shoulders and chest and up to his face, which seemed oddly frightened for someone so big.

"Finny," Lina said, her voice thick and sweet. Finn turned around and looked at them as they approached, his face apprehensive. "Introduce us to your friends."

Finn glared at her. "Marcel, Lina, this is Dave and Sam." He said, nodding at Mr. Timid and Pouty Lips respectively. "They're gay."

Marcel felt a little spark of excitement tug in his chest. Gay meant he might actually have a chance at getting those big hands on his body.

"Actually, I'm bi-sexual." Sam injected.

"So?" Dave growled. His voice was dark and deep, and it made Marcel's stomach do little flips. "Why would you say that?" Dave glared at Lina as he spoke. "You're with me, so it doesn't really matter, does it."

_You're with me- _shit. Marcel's stomach sank, as his chances with Dave went down considerably.

Sam and Dave continued to argue, and Marcel looked them over, mentally recalculating his plan of attack.

"Don't be jealous," He cooed. "Lina can't help but have everyone want her." Marcel said, pulling himself up and taking a seat on the edge of the table, near Sam. Dave turned his attention towards him, the timid look in his eyes from before gone. In it's place, anger.

"I don't." Sam was insisting, shaking Dave's arm. He looked at Lina. "I mean sorry, but I love him." Sam turned back to Dave. "I love you."

Dave seemed to calm down a little, and Marcel chewed the inside of his cheek.

"So, just out of curiosity, which one of you is the bottom?" Marcel asked, trying to rile Dave up again. He hated it when anyone asked that, so he knew it was bound to annoy them.

Lina giggled and leaned against his arm, still staring hard at Sam.

"I do not see how that's any of your business." Sam replied, his face red.

Lina giggled harder, and pressed her lips against Marcel's ear. "I think we found our bottom." She whispered loudly. Marcel grinned- Lina was such a bitch, it was wonderful.

"Look, we fucking take turns, ok?" Dave snapped. "Now if you don't want anything, would kindly go the fuck away?"

Delighted at the response, Marcel smiled at Dave, and leaned in closely to Sam. "You know, you can flip an Oreo cookie over all you want, but the bottom's still the bottom."

"How d'you know which halves the bottom? It's a cookie." Sam asked, unknowingly creating the perfect set-up for the rest of his taunt.

Marcel smiled at him. "Easy. The bottom's the one covered in the creamy filling." He said, and then hopped off the table.

He and Lina linked arms and rushed away, giggling hysterically. They ran around the corner, into the hallway that led to solitary, and paused to catch their breath. "Oh god," Marcel said, leaning against the wall. "God I want him so bad."

Lina swatted at his arm. "Back off, he's mine." She teased.

Marcel rolled his eyes. "Not Sam_, _you numpty. _Dave._" He looked around the corner, where Dave had his head tilted down, and was glowering at his lap. "He's perfect."

Marcel turned back around, and found Lina staring at him like he was insane. "You're not serious."

"Oh, I am very serious." Marcel said. "And I know exactly how to get him."

Lina raised an eyebrow, and crossed her arms. "How?"

"It's simple." He explained. "I want you to take a look at Sam and Dave, and tell me what you see."

Lina kept her eyebrows raised on her forehead as she looked around the corner, and shrugged. "I see an incredibly hot could-be model who's inexplicably dating a kind of chubby guy."

"Exactly!" Marcel exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "That's what most everyone would see. They'd look at them and say 'what's he doing with him?' And you know? Dave knows it. And he agrees."

"How do you know that?"

"I just do. When you were flirting with Sam, he got angry _fast._ He's jealous, because he's insecure. Sam is more conventionally attractive, and Dave probably thinks he's just this big, sweaty guy who no one would look twice at."

"Because he is." Lina said.

Marcel crossed his arms. "No, he's not. I like that he's big. He's sexy, and brawny and _gorgeous_ and I want to fuck him until I can't feel my dick anymore."

Lina wrinkled her nose. "You have weird taste in men."

Marcel rolled his eyes, and looked back around the corner. "If I can't fuck him, the least I can do is get him to throw me around a little-"

"Obviously the next best alternative to sex," Lina cut in. Marcel held up the middle finger, still looking at Dave. "You really get off on pain that much?"

Marcel shrugged. "I guess we'll find out." He said, turning around and grinning at her. "Wish me luck."

Marcel walked back over to them, catching a bit of their conversation.

"-And it turns out we have more supporters then we thought, too." Sam was saying to Finn. "Some kid in the chess club even came out a while ago."

"Oh how lovely." Marcel interrupted, approaching them again. He heard Finn moan, but he ignored it, and resumed his seat on the table in front of Sam. He could already feel Dave watching him."The chess team though, seems kind of random, no?"

Sam shrugged. "People come in all shapes and sizes. That includes gay people."

"Wow, pretty and smart." Marcel commented, smiling and Sam. He leaned in closely, and spoke in a low voice. "What a catch."

Beside Sam, Dave was seething. "You better back the hell off him, or I swear to god-"

"Sorry, I can't help it." Marcel cut in, staring at Sam with a look of lust. He allowed his eyes to flicker over to Dave for a moment, and saw his face was bright red, and his teeth were barred. Perfect. He looked back at Sam. "Besides, you know it doesn't make sense for a guy like him to be with a guy like you."

"Back off, dude." Sam and Finn said at the same time. They could both feel Dave beginning to reach his boiling point. Marcel could too, and it excited him.

"Come on, you know you're sick of dining on Big Macs." Marcel whispered, hoping to push Dave over. "Why don't you try something lighter?"

"That is IT!" Dave shouted, jumping to his feet.

To his delight, Marcel felt strong hands grab hold of him, and he was thrown against the wall. "I swear to fucking god I will beat the living day light out of you, you little shit."

Marcel laughed, and Dave shoved him into the wall again. "Please, like you even could. Just because you're big and sweaty doesn't mean you've got the muscles or balls to do shit."

In the background, he could hear Finn shouting for him to shut up. Why would he ever stop now? Dave's hands were digging into his shoulders, and as he slammed him into the wall again, his knee came out and pressed between his legs. As he shook him around, Dave's knee rubbed against him and Marcel had to hold in a moan.

Finn was trying to get Dave to back off, telling him he was giving him what he wanted.

Determined to keep Dave focused on him, Marcel went in on him again. "Wow you've got a weak grip." He criticized, wiggling his shoulders under Dave's hands, despite his grip being far from weak. He looked at Sam, who was standing behind his boyfriend. "That must be frustrating."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Dave screamed, drawing his fist back and shoving it into his stomach. A thousand heated volts of electricity shot through him, calling back memories of being whipped and beaten into submission by Stevie. Marcel doubled over, and Dave slammed him back against the wall, holding him even tighter. He felt like he was on fire. God, it had been so long since someone had touched him like this...

"Is this hard enough for you, you fuck?" Dave growled, his face close enough that Marcel could feel Dave's hot breath on his skin.

"No, _harder." _He begged, forgetting himself.

Dave dug his knee harder between his legs, and he couldn't stop himself from moaning any longer. As soon as he did, a confused and frightened look came over Dave's face and he quickly let go of Marcel's shoulders.

Marcel felt himself sinking down against the wall, an exhausted satisfaction filling his chest.

Lina had come over now, and she knelt next to him, and put her hand between his legs. He supposed she was trying to see if he really had gotten off on that. He hadn't- not quite...but he'd been close.

Lina shook her head and looked at Dave. "You could at least finish him off, you know." She chided, making a clicking sound with her tongue.

Marcel tried to smile, but the satisfaction he'd felt was already beginning to fade, replacing itself with a cold emptiness. The weight of what he'd done was dawning on him, accompanied by overwhelming feelings of shame and regret.

Finn had taken Sam and Dave away, most likely to try and calm them both down, and he was left alone with Lina. He turned to her, and his voice caught in his throat. "Lina, what did I just do?" He whispered.

Lina shrugged. "Well, I think you made Dave cry."

Marcel let his head fall against her shoulder, and she patted his back. "Oh god, why did I do that? Why did I..."

The conversation they'd had before, and the thoughts he'd had twisted themselves into a dark mass in his mind, and he sobbed against his friend. He'd looked at Dave, and been able to see all of his insecurities and fears, all his feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing...and he'd exploited them . Without a second thought, he'd used them to manipulate Dave into satisfying his own sick desires.

"Oh fuck..._oh fuck._" Marcel gasped. "I c-can't keep doing this. I don't want to _be _like this anymore!"

"I don't know what to say to you, sweetie." Lina said, rubbing his shoulder. "It's not as though we have a choice."

Marcel shook his head, and put his hand on the wall to help lift himself up. He stumbled to his feet, and wiped at his eyes. "I gotta go- I gotta go talk to Pete." He muttered, walking out of the main room on stiff legs.

Marcel made his way to Pete's office, and opened the door without bothering to knock. "Pete?"

His psychiatrist looked up from the papers on his dest, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. "Marcel!" He exclaimed, glancing at the clock on the wall. "You're 30 minutes early..."

"I needed to talk to you," He explained, his voice still shaky. He closed the door behind him and took a seat in one of the chairs across from Pete's desk. "I did something bad."

Pete raised an eyebrow. "Is this about Michael again?" He asked, obviously thinking back to his and Michael's incident a few weeks prior.

Marcel shook his head. "No."

Pete nodded, as though he was making some sort of sense. "Alright Marcel, why don't you just explain to me what happened, and we'll figure it out together."

Marcel nodded. "Well...Finn had visitors, and Lina came to get me 'cause she thought one of them was cute."

"Finn had visitors? Besides his mother and step-father?" Pete asked, sounding surprised, but pleased.

Marcel nodded. "Yeah, they looked like his friends. They were two guys, and like I said, Lina liked one of them...but I liked the other." He said quietly. It was awful, how he'd acted. And all because he'd _liked _him. "He was sort of bigger, and I think...I think something about him sort of reminded me of Howie..."

"Howie?" Pete questioned. "That was one of the men who...?"

Marcel nodded. "He was bigger then Dave- that's Finn's friend, Dave- but they have a similar build." Marcel put his head in his hands, shutting his eyes against the familar sting of tears. "Oh god, and I wanted him..."

"So what did you do?"

Marcel sniffed. "I provoked him, made him angry. _Really _angry..."

"To what end?" Pete asked, his voice soft.

Marcel wiped at the tears on his cheeks, looking at the ground as he spoke. He felt disgusting, like a conniving little tramp- which is exactly what he supposed he was. "I- I wanted him to hurt me. Th-throw me around..."

All his resolves about keeping things that no one would understand to himself were shattering, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. Pete was writing everything he was saying down, probably making little notes about how fucked up he was. Who wanted someone to treat him like his _kidnappers _used to? Fuck...

"I'm so fucked up," Marcel sobbed, his shoulders shaking. "Why am I feeling like this?"

Pete put down his pencil and looked at him. "What you're feeling isn't uncommon, Marcel." He said quietly. "A lot of victims of kidnapping and abuse have lingering feelings for their abusers, even long after rescue. Some even find themselves missing them, or to an extent wishing they hadn't been rescued."

Marcel blinked, his eyelashes sticking together with tears. "R-really?"

Pete nodded. "Have you ever heard of Stockholm's Syndrome?"

Marcel groaned. Of course he had. Oh god-

"I know it's hard to hear, but you need to face up to the fact that that's most likely what you're dealing with."

Marcel shook his head. "No- I...it's not that. You don't understand..."

"Marcel, do you remember what you told me the second time we spoke, when you were still in the medical ward?" Pete asked. Marcel shook his head. "You told me you wanted to go back to the people who took you, and that they weren't the evil people we thought they were. You said they cared for you."

"They did!" Marcel shouted, the tears streaming down his cheeks now.

Pete shook his head. "That's what Stockholm's Syndrome is- a shift in the victim/kidnapper dynamic. Left without any other options, the victim puts their trust into the kidnapper. And as they do, every kindness begins to take on a massive significance. They begin to feel grateful for simply being allowed to live, or given food to eat. Basic rights that were taken away from them, they feel like gifts when given back. They-"

"Stop it!" Marcel screamed. "Stop telling me how _I _feel like you're reading out of a goddamned textbook!"

"I have to, Marcel. You need to recognize and identify what your feeling, so you can begin to separate that from normal, healthy feelings of attachment. So you can maybe learn to trust someone again some day."

"I don't want to." Marcel seethed. "I don't want to trust _anyone. _All anyone does is _hurt _you."

Pete shook his head. "No. That's all _they _did. But they're not everyone. There are other people in your life you can learn to trust again, people who won't hurt you."

Marcel rubbed his eyes. "Like who."

"Like your father, for instance." Pete replied. "Or Michael, perhaps."

Marcel shook his head. "I can't trust him. Not my Dad, not Michael." He ran his fingers threw his hair, still shaking his head miserably. "Not after what he said."

"What did he say?"

Marcel squeezed his eyes tight. It felt like the room was pressing in around him, trying to suffocate him. It felt like _Pete _was trying to suffocate him, asking these questions to try and hurt him. Everyone wanted to hurt him, of course. What was it Ace had said to him once, whispered in his ear after he'd thrown him around? _You're so beautiful when you cry. _

Marcel clenched his teeth tightly together, trying to tell himself it wasn't like that here, no matter how much it felt like it. Pete- and Micheal- they weren't trying to hurt him. They weren't...

"_Take some deep breathes," _A gentle voice in his head instructed. _"Try and relax- tell yourself you're safe."_

Marcel did as the voice said, and tried to calm down. "He told me...he told me he was falling in love with me."


	13. Reunion

**Reunion**

It was late in the evening, barely two hours away from lights out, when Marcel finally approached Michael. He found him by the TV and sat down with him.

If Michael knew about what he'd done with Dave, or had noticed he'd been avoiding him all day, he didn't say anything. Marcel didn't say anything either; didn't confess or tell him how he was feeling. He still didn't know, wasn't at all sure how he felt...but he did know he was tired, and he needed to feel Michael's arms around him for a little.

They sat together quietly, watching a weird french movie about a gay kid who hated his mother.

"This is stupid." Michael mumbled, shifting around on the couch.

"It is not." Marcel said. "It's good."

"It's stupid." Michael repeated firmly. "This guys a little shit...the fuck's his Mom done to deserve being treated like that?"

Marcel shrugged. "Maybe he's had things rough, you don't know."

Michael shook his head. "He's just whiny."

"His Dad left them and he hates his mother- that's not rough enough for you?" Marcel asked, glaring up at him.

Michael looked down at him and raised an eyebrow. "Nope."

Marcel looked back at the TV for a moment, where the protagonist was currently throwing a fit in his mothers bedroom. "It's funny," He said quietly. "I had the opposite problem. It was my mother that left, and my father I fought with."

Michael was quiet for a moment, and Marcel waited for him to say something.

"Did you act like this asshole?" Michael said eventually.

"Yeah." Marcel said numbly. "Worse, sometimes."

Michael looked at him. "You never told me your Mom left." He said quietly.

Marcel shrugged. "I don't tell you about a lot of things." He muttered, looking away. He could feel Michael staring at him, and he sighed. "It was right after we moved to Columbus. That's where I was living..._before. _I'd made a bunch of new friends, and they all encouraged me to come out...my friend Eddie told me it didn't matter what my parents thought, 'cause all parents are assholes anyhow. So I was all defiant about it, ready to tell them I didn't give a shit what they thought and they could go fuck off..." He looked down, and played with the hem of his t-shirt, stretched out from how many times he'd done it before. "But deep down...I didn't want to have to do that. I wanted my parents to throw their arms around me and tell me they loved me anyways and they didn't care..." Marcel blinked away a few tears, and pressed himself tighter under Michael's arm. "They didn't do that."

"What did they do?" Michael asked.

"Nothing, really." Marcel muttered. "They just sort of sat there...like they were in shock." He wiped at his eyes. "Anyway, a couple weeks later she was gone. My father never said so, but I always thought he blamed me for her leaving. And I guess I did too. Blamed myself..."

"You don't know that's why she-"

"No, I don't know." Marcel said. "But it's what I thought anyways."

Michael squeezed his shoulder, and pressed a small kiss against his ear. Marcel turned his head to look at him, and saw a wide concerned look in his eyes. Michael's eyes were always concerned when they looked at him. "And then...you and your Dad didn't get a long?"

Marcel gave a half-hearted shrug. "No...but it's not like we'd ever been close, really. He was interested in football and beer, and like cars or whatever and I...well I wasn't." He shrugged again. "But it was worse after she left...He blamed me for her leaving, and I hated him for never understanding me...never loving me like he was supposed to."

Michael put a hand on the side of his face. "If he doesn't love you, why does he keep trying to visit?"

Marcel blinked a few times, at a loss for an answer.

That night, lying alone in his bed, Marcel would have been lying if he said he was thinking about what Michael had said. He didn't think about it at all.

Instead, he spent most of the night thinking about what he'd do to Ace if he ever saw him again. He was going to scream at him, and punch him in the face and tell him what an asshole he was. Then he was going to force him to his knees and _fuck _him until he couldn't walk for a week- and then yell some more. God damned fucking jerk...maybe he'd punch him a few more times, too.

In between fantasy's of Ace, Marcel spent a few moments considering what Pete had said to him in therapy, right before it had ended (or, right before Marcel'd had enough, and ended it).

"Marcel, your problem is not _sex._" Pete had told him, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on the hem of his shirt. "You're not an addict, or a pervert-"

"What about a paraphilliac?" He'd asked. Lina's comments had stayed with him.

Pete furrowed his brow. "What? No, you don't have any type of paraphillia. Where would you get that idea?"

Marcel shook his head. "Nowhere..."

Pete sighed. "Your _problem,_" He continued. "Is your inability, or more, your unwillingness, to properly deal with your feelings. To process them on a healthy level, and handle them appropriately. Right now, you're using to sex to avoid them."

Marcel stared up at the ceiling, and played those words over and over in his head.

..._Your problem is not sex..._

Marcel snorted. That he didn't believe. _All _his problems were about sex- having it, not having it, not wanting it, wanting it too much...sex was everything.

But the part about avoiding his feelings...well, that he could see. Marcel may not have been completely in tune with himself, but he knew enough to know he hated his own feelings, and the way they seemed to work against him. And if there was one thing he hated more then his own feelings, it was dealing with them.

* * *

><p>Marcel spent all night thinking about Ace, his avoidance problems, and sex. He barely thought about Michael, and didn't give a second of consideration to what he'd said about his father. And in the morning, when Casey came up to him and told him his father was once again there to visit him, he still hadn't given the matter any thought; hadn't come to any conclusions.<p>

"Alright, let him in." Marcel said quietly.

* * *

><p>Marcel stared down at the floor as his father walked in, practically having to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the door frame as he entered. There were times when Marcel thought their size difference might secretly have been responsible for a lot for a lot of the disconnect between them. His father was at least 6 foot 5, a thick and solid man who had never quite shaken the look of the soldier he'd been in his youth. Marcel hadn't inherited a single physical quality from him- he was entirely his mother, petite and delicate, his growth stunted at 5 foot 3. Marcel didn't know if his father resented him for being so tiny, but he sure as hell resented it.<p>

Marcel could see his fathers shiny black boots now, and he shifted around uncomfortably on his feet. He didn't know why he'd said yes...what was there left between them that they needed to discuss? They were strangers to each other.

He could feel his Dad waiting for him to say something.

"So, y'know...hi, I guess." Marcel mumbled, still not looking up. He crossed his arms and waited for his father to respond.

Marcel was greeted by more silence and then...sniffling. He furrowed his brow and looked up to see his fathers broad shoulders shaking uncontrollably, and tears streaming down his face.

"I-I'm s-so s-s-sorry, Mars. So, so sorry." He choked.

Marcel stepped back from the man in front of him, feeling uneasy. His father didn't cry. Marcel didn't like this. "What are you sorry for?" He asked, wrinkling his nose. "I was the big queerfag."

At that word, His father, who'd endlessly criticized and looked down on him for being the sensitive little fairy he was, made a pained sound like an animal being kicked in the gut. "N-no. N-none of it was your fault." He continued to cry. "It was mine. I-I used those f-fucking words and said all that shit and y-you got the wrong idea. I p-pushed you away, p-pushed you to- to-"

Marcel's head swam, and he began to feel dettached. The apology, the tears...none of it was real. "You didn't push me to anything." He said simply. "That's just who I am. A queerfag-slut. You said so."

"No!" His Dad cried. "I never should have said that! That's bullshit. You're a great kid, Mars you always were I was just-"

Marcel held up his hand. He'd heard enough. "Dad, stop it. I know you feel bad about what happened, but it didn't change anything. Just cause I got raped, it doesn't mean I'm suddenly dick-a-phobic. I'm not gonna try and find myself a nice girl to settle down with. Nothing's changed. I still like dudes, and still like them a fucking lot."

His father lunged forward suddenly, and for a moment Marcel thought he was going to strike him. Instead, he grabbed his shoulders, his large hands covering them entirely. "I don't care!" He blubbered. "That's what's changed. I don't give a shit what you like, because you're my boy and I love you. I will never, ever forgive myself for pushing you away like I did, and for using those awful words about you or anyone. I'm s-so sorry..." He dissolved into tears, falling to his knees and crying against Marcel's chest.

Marcel stared over the top of his fathers head. He could feel his Dad shaking and hear him crying, and he could feel it getting to him.

"Why did you then?" He asked, his voice trembling. "I was still your kid then too, and it was like you hated me."

His father shook his head, leaning back and giving him a miserable look. "No- I never hated you. Never. I-I didn't understand you...Even before you told me you were- you were gay, I still didn't get you. You were always so much smarter then me. All those stories you used to make up, all the things you used to read...it went right over my head. And then all of a sudden you were dressin' different, and talking different and I just...I don't know. I was an ignorant bastard."

Marcel felt a pressure behind his eyes, and he shut them tightly. He didn't know how to feel. It had been almost a year since he'd seen his father, and months since he'd let himself think about him. He hadn't been able to think about his father, after everything he'd done...everything that had been done to him. He hadn't thought about it in months...but somehow, it was all still there. All the old anger, the resentment, all the regret and the hurt. It was all there, just as fresh and painful as ever.

Without even realizing it, he'd burst into tears.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry I changed!" He found himself crying. "I didn't really want to, I just wanted to fit in with my friends. I was too different from them, from like how everyone said people like me should be. Like how you said people like me were." Marcel sobbed, letting out things he hadn't even realized he'd been feeling. "I just wanted you to love me so badly a-and you didn't and I w-wanted to pretend I didn't care so I acted like I didn't and it just made it worse and-"

His father stood up and pulled him into his arms, and Marcel sobbed against his chest. "No, none of it was your fault." His dad said gruffly, hugging him so tight he could barely breath. "I should have paid attention to what you were doing, should have known it wasn't you- that something was wrong."

"I'm sorry," Marcel sobbed, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. He felt like a switch had been flicked on inside him, a switch that finally let him cry about everything that had happened- not just being kidnapped, but the way he'd lashed out at his father and manipulated his friends, the horrible way he'd used Finn and Dave and even Michael so he wouldn't have to think about what he'd done and the ways he hated himself for it.

"I'm so glad you're back Mars," His dad sobbed. "So glad- no idea how I-"

Marcel nodded, squeezing his eyes tight and pressing his small body against his Dad. For just a moment, he was glad he was back too.

* * *

><p>10 lifetimes or so later, when they stopped crying and got a hold of themselves, his father cleared his throat and delivered some information that almost knocked Marcel off his feet. The police thought they'd found the men who'd kidnapped him.<p>

Marcel's chest tightened painfully. _No...they couldn't have them. They couldn't. _

"How do they know?" He asked, panicked.

"They don't yet, but uh...they have that um, _evidence,_ that they say they can use to identify them."

Marcel tried not to snort at that. Evidence. The _evidence_ they had was the _cum _he'd been covered in when they'd found him. The knot in his chest eased a little, but not much.

"So it might not be them?" He asked, not feeling entirely hopeful. If it was them, it was over. Besides Jack, they all had criminal records. Stevie had been taken in once for prostitution, Lloyd and Club armed robbery, Ace aggravated assault, and Howie auto-theft. The police wold have their DNA and prints on file.

"They seem pretty sure." His Dad said. "Apparently they weren't too careful when they were moving around."

Of course not, the idiots. They weren't careful about anything, the fucking- "Oh." He mumbled.

"The evidence they got was uh, um it showed-" His Dad rubbed his eyes tiredly. "It was from around five guys, and that's how many they caught so-"

Marcel's head snapped up. "They caught five guys?"

"Yeah. Is that how many, um, how many there were?"

Marcel sucked his breath. "...Yeah. Five guys."

His mind raced. Five of them...one had escaped the law...who? Which one of them was still out there? Marcel wished he could ask. He needed to know.

"I'll be damn glad if they did catch them," His Dad was saying. "But I can't say part of me won't be a bit sad too. I'd have liked to catch those motherfucks myself and-" He shook his head angrily. "It's just a real shame they don't use the electric chair anymore, is all I'm saying. I'd love to watch the fuckers fry."

"Yeah..." Marcel mumbled half-heartedly. "Watch 'em fry..."

He hugged his arms around himself, feeling frightened. A while ago he'd been glad to hear that he wouldn't have to testify if they ever caught them, because he wasn't considered "of sound mind." Now he wished he could, if only to see them again. Maybe talk to them...he had so many questions. Why had they left him? Hadn't he done everything right for them, tried to give them anything they'd wanted? Why give him an unloaded gun? Why act like a bunch of _idiots _and get caught?

He shook his head, still turning over the most important question of all; which of them was still out there...and was there any chance they were still looking for him?

Michael had stood up now, and was giving him an expectant look. Marcel chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, and then went over and took Michael's hand. "Uh, Dad," He said, leading Michael back over to his father. "I have someone to introduce you too."

His father narrowed his eyes a little, training them intently on Michael. "Oh yeah?" He huffed, clearly sensing where this was going, and evidently not pleased about it.

Marcel nodded. "This is Michael, he's...sort of my boyfriend." He said distantly.

Michael smiled nervously, and reached out a hand to his father. "It's uh, good to meet you, Sir."

Instead of shaking his hand, his Dad simply looked at it for a moment before turning his gaze to Marcel. "You sure that's a good idea? Dating, in here?" He asked. "Shouldn't you wait till you're a bit better?"

Marcel shrugged. "I dunno," He mumbled, looking at the floor the to avoid his father's scrutiny and the hurt look Michael was giving him. "I mean, Michael's sort of the only good thing that's happened to me in months so..."

His father looked unconvinced, and he opened his mouth to say so, then closed it again. "And the people here, the doctors are ok with it?" He asked eventually.

Marcel nodded. "They think connections are good. And it's not like we can do anything with them checking on us every 5 minutes."

He seemed pleased to hear that. "Oh, uh good." He said, hooking his thumbs in his belt. "I mean, not that I have a problem with that-" He added quickly. "If you want to do...things, with your- uh- boyfriend. I mean, I don't- I don't care."

Marcel smiled a little, and looked up at his Dad. "I appreciate that." He said, leaning against Michael's arm a bit. To his surprise, Michael wiggled out of his grasp.

"I'll um, let you two talk." Michael muttered, now avoiding eye contact himself. He turned and walked away, leaving Marcel alone with his father, who smiled awkwardly at him.

"So uh, can I see your room?" He asked. Marcel nodded.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If you go to my profile, you'll find a link to some short profiles I made on the OC's from this story and Recovery, including pictures and drawings. Enjoy :D**


	14. Not like I do

**Not like I do**

Michael stared off into the distance, his eyes unfocused. He could hear the sounds around him, but they didn't seem to have any meaning. He was thinking, and at the same time, he wasn't. He was a blank slate, empty and black. Nothing written.

A loud _bang _snapped him back out of his not-thoughts, and he shook his head. His eyes focused on a frustrated looking middle aged woman, with neat brown hair and too-thin eyebrows, and he remembered he was supposed to be having a therapy session.

"Do I have your attention now?" His therapist, Doctor Kay Parker, asked. She picked up a large encyclopedia from off the floor beside her desk, and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Sorry," Michael mumbled, shifting around in his chair. "I just...I was thinking."

"Anything you'd like to share?" Kay asked.

Michael sighed, and leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his thighs. "I just...I just don't know how to handle it, you know? I mean I try, but he's so all over the place-"

"We're talking about Marcel?" She asked, making a small note on a pad of paper in front of her. Michael raised his eyebrows, giving her a look that blatantly said "duh," and she rolled her eyes. "Right, of course we are."

He nodded, and shook his head a little. "It's like, everything he does- the flirting with other guys, the mood swings, the panic attacks- it's all stuff I can handle, you know? It's just part of the package. Shit happened to him, and now he has to deal with it. And I wanna be there for him, and help him and stuff..." He put his head in his hands. "But what he's doing now..."

"What's he doing?"

"That's the thing, I don't know!" Michael cried, throwing his hands up in the air. "I don't have a fucking clue- it's like he's messing with me." He shut his eyes tightly. "No that's- that's not fair, I know he's not doing it on purpose- no, I don't know." He seethed, opening his eyes and feeling a familiar anger tighten his jaw.

"Michael-" Kay said, raising her thin eyebrows. "Breath."

Michael took a deep breath as instructed, and counted to three, calming himself down. "It's just, for the first time, I have no idea what's going on in his head. It's like he's shutting me out. He won't talk to me, he'll avoid me...but then at the end of the day, he'll still come and cuddle with me on the couch." He said miserably. "But then the next day, he's back to avoiding me and I just don't get it. I just _don't._"

Kay nodded, and made a few more notes on her pad before looking back up at him. "Have you tried talking to him about it? Asking him what's going on?"

"...No."

She nodded again. "Well, that's definitely the first step. Communication is extremely important in every relationship, and in one like yours and Marcel's, it's going to be key in staying together. If something's bothering you, let him know. Talk to him about it- and make sure he does the same in the reverse."

"But what if I ask him about it, and he won't tell me?" Michael worried. "What if he says he doesn't know what I'm talking about, or he doesn't want to talk about it- or what if-"

"Michael," His therapist cut in. "You can only deal with the things that _do _happen, not the things that _might _happen."

Michael nodded slowly, chewing on his lip. He hated worrying like this, second guessing himself all the time, feeling self-conscious. He wrung his hands together. "I just want things to be ok between us again."

* * *

><p>Marcel lay on his floor, with his legs up on the bed, staring at his ceiling and flipping back and forth between thinking about his Dad, and worrying about Ace and the rest of them. Wondering about the one who was still out there.<p>

There was a knock at his door, and he almost jumped out of his skin.

"Marcel?" Michael's voice asked, coming through the door. "Marcel, I know you're in there. I need to talk to you."

Marcel squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He'd been dreading this, but he'd known it was coming.

Slowly, Marcel got to his feet and opened the door. Michael looked somber, and he walked in without a word.

Hugging his arms tightly around himself, Marcel sat down on his bed and looked up at his boyfriend, waiting for him to speak.

Michael kept his hands firmly shoved into his pockets, seemingly struggling with what he wanted to say. After a moment, he let out a long sigh, and looked at Marcel with tired eyes. "Marcel, what's going on?" He asked.

Marcel lowered his eyes. "I don't know what you mean..."

"Oh, bull_shit!_" Michael cried, swinging his arm out and knocking a book off of Marcel's bedside table. "Shit, sorry," He mumbled, bending down immediately and picking it up. He turned back to him, upset. "You can't do this to me, Marcel. You can't just avoid me all day, and then try to cuddle on the couch like everything's fine. I'm not just this _thing _that's there for your convenience- I'm a person, right?" He said, crossing and uncrossing his arms nervously.

Marcel drew his knees up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them. "I'm sorry..." He said quietly, eyes still downcast.

Michael sighed again, and sat down on the bed. "Well, I mean I forgive you." He said, as though it were obvious. "But just- just _tell me _what's going on? Please?"

Marcel continued to look at his knees, and he felt Michael place a hand on his shoulder. "Please?" He repeated, his voice softer.

Marcel looked away, wishing he couldn't feel Michael's unflinching stare. "It's nothing. I'm sorry if I haven't been spending as much time with you..."

Michael made a pained noise, and put his head in his hands. Marcel risked a glance at him, and his throat closed up. He looked so miserable...Marcel hated that. He hated that he was making him miserable. He'd never wanted to...

"Marcel, don't do this..." Michael said, his fingers clawing through his hair as he struggled to remain clam. He looked up suddenly, and Marcel found himself caught in Michael's gaze, looking dead into his blue eyes and unable to look away again. "Please I- I can't handle this," He begged. "Anything else- _everything _else, I can deal with it. I know you feel bad or guilty about the way you are, but you don't have to because I get it, I do-"

"No, you don't." Marcel said, his words sounding crueler than he'd intended. "There's no way you could understand."

"Right, exactly," Michael agreed. "_That's _what I understand...I understand that there's _no way _I could understand what you went through, so I'm not gonna hold it against you or judge you, see?"

Marcel shook his head. "You can't put up with it forever. You shouldn't have to..."

"The only thing I can't _deal_ with is what your doing now." Michael said. "Everything else I accept, alright? It's who you are, it's what's happened to you, it's what you have to deal with. So I can deal with it, all of it, with you. Because I know that _anything _about what's happening that's hard for me, is 10 times harder for you. And I don't want that, I want things to be good for you. But this- shutting me out like this, not talking to me...this I cannot handle. Being treated like I'm nothing to you..." He put his hand back on his head. "I can't handle being nothing to you."

"You're not nothing." Marcel said, his eyes eyes wide. "How could you think that? Michael-" He took Michael's hand in his. "Michael Eisenberg you are the textbook definition of a _something _to me."

Michael stared at him, his blue eyes round and vulnerable. "Then tell me what's been going on. Tell me what I did. Please."

Marcel took his hand away, and breathed out through his nose. He knew he needed to tell him, knew that he hadn't been fair to him at all over the last few days. He wanted to tell him too, he did. He could see what he'd been doing was killing Michael, and that was the last thing he wanted. Still, it didn't mean it was easy.

Marcel closed his eyes, and forced himself to speak. "I- the last...the last people who told me they loved me," Marcel sighed, and opened his eyes, looking miserably into Michael's. "You don't know what they did to me." He whispered. _"I _don't even know what they did to me I just...I know it _hurt." _He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, fighting back against tears. "It hurt _so much _and I can't do it again," He said, shaking his head. "I can't."

"Marcel, listen to me," Michael said. He lifted his hand up and cupped Marcel's chin. "Those _people _didn't love you. Not like I do."

Marcel squared his shoulders against the sting of Michael's comment. "You weren't there. You don't know that-"

"Yeah, I do."

"_How?" _

"Because I would have _died _before I hurt you like that." Michael said, reaching down and gripping Marcel's hands in his. "And I would die if anyone ever hurt you like that again. I may not know a hell of a lot about love, but I know that when you love someone you don't do what those guys did to you. And I know that I love you, and I wanna be with you, no matter what."

Marcel blinked, trying to focus his eyes through the tears. "I'm sorry," He said, his voice thick and sticking in his throat. Without even thinking about it he moved into Michael's arms and lay down against his chest. Michael put his arms around and held him tight, and he cried harder. He'd hated avoiding him, hating being scared to see him. "I w-was just scared, I didn't know what to do..."

Michael kissed him on the top of his head, and gave him a tight squeeze. "Already forgiven, remember?" He said. Marcel gave a relieved sob, and pressed his face tightly against Michael's shoulder. "I'm sorry too though," Michael said. "I should have found a better way to tell you, I should have known it would be hard to hear...I should have waited."

Marcel shook his head. "I doubt it would have made a difference," He said. "The problem's me, not you."

"The problem was both of us, 'cause we weren't communicating." Michael said. "Communication is the most important thing for a healthy relationship."

Marcel snorted. "You sound like ."

Michael brushed a finger along Marcel's cheek, and he looked up and saw Michael was grinning at him. "Dr. Kay, actually. But close." He leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss against his lips. Marcel closed his eyes, trying to wish away the last few days and all his fears. He'd been so stupid, _so _stupid. He hoped that no matter what happened in the future, he would never be that stupid again.

Marcel broke the kiss, and edged his tongue out along his bottom lip, biting down on it lightly. "I missed you," He said, looking up into Michael's safe navy eyes. He'd missed those eyes, their light and their warmth.

Michael smiled at him, the kind of smile that made his stomach drop to his knees and his heart do a drum beat in his chest. "I missed you too, Mars." He said quietly.

Marcel felt his cheeks heat up. "The only one who ever calls me that is my Dad," He said, looking up at him through his lashes.

"Sorry, I kinda thought it was cute..."

Marcel smiled. "I mean...you can call me that, if you want." He whispered. "I always liked that a lot better than 'Marcey.'" Michael raised an eyebrow. "That was what my friends called me...and it's what _they _called me, too." Marcel looked down. "I've always hated that nickname."

Michael nodded, and they lay together quietly for a moment. Marcel felt tired, and as usual lying in Michael's arms made sleep seem all the more enticing, but he fought against it. They'd spent such little time together over the past few days, he didn't want to waste any more by sleeping. "My Dad...he told me that my friends might come visit me soon." Marcel said.

"Yeah?" Michael asked, looking down at him.. "That good or bad?"

Marcel gave a one shouldered shrug. "I dunno...good, I guess. I think I miss them...but I'm not sure what to do...I mean, I'm not sure how they'd react-"

"To finding out they have no idea who you are?" Michael finished.

"Exactly," Marcel said. "But...But I do want to tell them."

Michael nodded. "I think that's a good idea."

Marcel felt his eyebrows knit together. "But what if they don't like me?" He worried. "What if they think I'm a weirdo, or they get pissed because I lied to them and they don't wanna be my friend anymore? What if-"

"Mars," Michael said gently. "You can only deal with the stuff that _does _happen, not the stuff that _might _happen."

Marcel shut his eyes. How could he respond to that? He practically spent all his time thinking about what _might _happen; dreading it, and at the same time...praying for it.

"Michael..." He said, a quiet tremor in his voice.

Michael tightened his arms around him, holding him close and tight. "Yeah?"

"I'm scared." Marcel whispered. He wasn't thinking about his friends anymore. He wasn't even sure what he was thinking about.

"You don't have to be." Michael murmured, leaning in and pressing his lips close to his ear as he spoke. "I'm right here, and I'll never let anything hurt you again. I promise."

Marcel kept his eyes closed, and allowed his head to rest against Michael's chest. He tried to tell himself he was safe, and it was alright to drift off to sleep now...but the dark knot in his chest held him awake. The dark knot that twisted itself inside him, filling him with the overwhelming notion that Michael wouldn't be able to keep that promise.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I've sort of got the idea to do a few stories about the "Recovery OC's," about what their lives would have been like if they hadn't had to deal with their mental illness, or trauma. As usual, most of my ideas are for Marcel- what would have happened if he'd never gotten kidnapped. Same for Michael, if he'd never had IED, never gone to the bin. **

**I've also got a vague for Paige and George, because I also love them. **


	15. Friends with Benefits

**Friends with Benefits**

_His fingers curled over one of the metal poles of his head board, and he dropped face down into his pillow as he tried to keep from crying out. Against his will, he could hear tantalized moans escaping his throat, and try as he might he couldn't stop them. _

_Soft hands stroked along his back, encouraging more moans and gasps, along with a few agonized whimpers- quiet pleas for more. _

_He could feel his breath on his ear and he turned his face to kiss him, the angle wrong and painful but the kiss so worth it. _

_They were both panting, covered in sweat and he could feel himself getting close, close to the edge and falling over into whited out mindless bliss, and he fought against it. He didn't want this to end, he wanted to stay like this for as long as possible, wanted the boy behind him to stay this close forever. _

"_I love you," The boy whispered, trailing kisses along his shoulder. He held him close, and he could feel the words shiver down his spine, making his back arch. "I love you so much..." _

_He could feel himself slipping, leaning far down over the edge until finally-_

_-THUD!_

There was a white hot pain in his head, and Michael groaned, sitting up and finding himself on the floor beside his bed, feet tangled in his sheets. He glared at his bed side table, which was responsible for the bump that was currently forming on his crown. _Stupid fucking hunk of wood..._

Michael sighed, and slowly picked himself up off the floor, fixing the blankets before falling back down into his bed. He pinched his eyes tiredly, as he thought about the dream he'd just been rudely awakened from. God, that _dream..._

He needed to stop having dreams like that. He couldn't want Marcel like that, not when what Marcel needed was for him to keep saying no. And he was pretty sure that _was _what he needed; to distance himself from sex, to realize he could be wanted for things other than he body. To realize that he was _more _than that...so much more.

Michael looked at the clock, and saw it was just about time to get up. He sighed, and swung his legs off the bed, preparing himself for another cold shower.

* * *

><p>Marcel opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it again and furrowed his brow. He looked at the girl in front of him, and tried to think of something to say. Anything he could say to her. He came up with nothing.<p>

Tiffany had been sitting on the couch with him for 20 minutes now, quietly colouring in a drawing she'd made of a unicorn with the pastels Paige had gotten from her boyfriend George (the fact that Paige had a boyfriend had been slightly mind-boggling to Marcel). Since she was here, and since Michael was in therapy and Lina had gone for a walk, he figured he should speak to her.

It was just now occurring to him that he'd never really regained his ability to hold a normal conversation.

"So...Tiffany..." He tried, with no idea what the rest of the sentence was going to be. Tiffany looked up from her drawing, and smiled pleasantly at him. "What are you uh, in here for?"

"Schizophrenia," She said, nodding her head a few times.

Marcel blinked a few times, stunned. "Really?" He asked. He wasn't sure what answer he'd been expecting, but it wasn't that. She brushed a piece of blond hair out of her eyes. "I uh...wow. So...so what's...I mean, do you like hear voices and stuff?" He cringed. "I mean- sorry I-"

"It's ok, I don't mind talking about it." Tiffany said easily. "I used to hear voices, a few of them," She said, shrugging her shoulders. "Mostly they just argued with each other, one of them yelled at me a lot..." She frowned. "But they think the new medication I'm on should keep them a way for good this time. It's supposed to be really strong."

"Oh..." Marcel said. "Is that...good?"

"Mostly," She replied. "It's nice not having to listen to them all the time, and I feel a bit more stable, which is good...but it also makes me feel kinda nauseous sometimes," Tiffany said, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "And like, sometimes I can't remember things...like every now and then there's just like, blank spaces in my head where a few hours should be."

"That's...really shitty."

Tiffany nodded. "Yeah, I guess. But you know how Young like writes everything down?" She asked. Marcel nodded, even know though he didn't really know that. He would take Tiffany's word for it. "Well, when that happens, she reads her journal to me, and tells me the stuff I missed. So it's ok." She smiled fondly, and turned back to her unicorn drawing. Marcel raised an eyebrow at her, sort of wishing he'd payed more attention to the people around him.

Apparently they were interesting.

"Tiffany," Marcel said slowly.

"Hmm?" She said, not looking up from her drawing. The unicorn now had a purple body with a blue horn, and she was currently adding a pair of pastel blue wings.

"Are you a lesbian?" Marcel asked.

"No, I'm a gemini." She replied.

Marcel opened his mouth to respond, but was distracted by someone tapping him on the shoulder. He looked up and saw it was Casey. "Yeah?" He said.

"There are two boys here to see you, Marcel." Casey said, smiling nervously at him. Marcel's eyes bulged. "They said their names are Edwin Bradley and Patrick Little."

"I...let them in." Marcel squeaked, his heart pounding in his chest. His father had told him his friends wanted to see him, he'd known they were coming. He supposed he hadn't expected it to be so soon.

He wished Michael was with him.

Casey went over to buzz the door open, and Marcel followed numbly behind her.

He didn't know why he felt so terrified. It was just Eddie and Pat. They- they were his friends. Or they had been.

The door opened, and two people stepped in. Marcel told himself to breath.

The last time Marcel had spoken to him, Eddie had called him a manipulative little slut, and told him he never wanted to see him again. Pat had said he was cruel, and heartless.

Almost a year had passed since then, and Marcel couldn't believe how much they'd changed, and how at the same time they were exactly the same. Eddie had gotten his eyebrow pierced, and there was a shocking white streak down his dark bangs, which were styled over one of his eyes like always. Pat had grown another inch, which wasn't fair since he was already tall, and he'd gotten his reddish brown hair cut short. They both looked so much older.

Pat was the first to speak. "Oh, my god." He said, bringing his hands up and covering his mouth, as though he couldn't believe it was really him. His blue eyes were filled with tears, and Marcel found that his were as well. The next thing he knew, both of their arms were around him, hugging him tightly and telling them how much they'd missed him.

"W-we thought you were _dead,_" Eddie cried, his eye-liner turning his tears smokey black and leaving dark tracks along his cheeks. "Oh god Marcel-"

"I'm so glad you're b-back-" Pat sobbed, his arms wrapped tightly around him. Marcel had the worrisome idea that he was never going to let go again. "_We missed you so much._"

Marcel sniffed back his own tears, overcome with how fucking _happy _he was to see his friends again. To hear their voices. "I missed you guys too," He cried, smiling through his tears. "And I'm s-so _sorry _about what I-"

"Hush, Marcey." Pat instructed. Marcel felt a small jolt go through him at the nick name. "It's not even a thing anymore."

"We're just glad you're ok," Eddie said, grabbing him out of Pat's embrace and pulling him into his own. Pat put his arms around them both, and Marcel felt him kiss his forehead.

"And we're never letting you out of our sights again," Pat informed him. "Never. In fact, Eddie and I plan to move in here with you."

Marcel laughed, and wrapped his arms tighter around Eddie. He was sandwiched between the two of them now, and he let the heat of their bodies warm him. "Wonderful plan," He said, leaning back and smiling at Eddie. "You're both nuts enough to pass the admissions test."

Around him, Eddie and Pat exchanged looks, and then promptly burst back into tears. Their hold on him became back breaking, and they sobbed into his shoulders. _"We missed you so mu-uch!" _They lamented.

They went on like that for another 10 minutes, only stopping when Casey came over and asked with a worried expression if they were alright. After insisting that they were, and these were really happy/estatic/Marcey-we-swear-we're-never-letting-go-so-get-used-to-this tears, they were finally able to get a hold on themselves, and sat down at a table to talk.

Marcel smiled at them, feeling nervous but determined. "I have something to tell you guys," He said, still wiping a few tears off his face. Eddie and Pat sat across from him, and each held one of his hands over the table. Marcel took a deep breath. "I hate shopping." He said.

Eddie furrowed his brow, and Pat tilted his head to the side. Obviously neither of them had been expecting that. "What-"

"Wait, there's more." Marcel interrupted. "I hate shopping, and I don't really care about clothes. I just want something comfortable. Like flannel." Pat wrinkled his nose at that, but Marcel continued. "I don't care about whether or not Ashton is cheating on Demi with the maid, or a flight attendant, or whoever. I think Lady Gaga is over-rated and obnoxious and I want to punch Jessie J. I like reading books and poetry, and watching TV shows about crazy people doing ridiculous and insane things. And I used to like making up stories about the people at our school, or that I saw on the street, but I haven't done that in a while. I'm sorry I lied, I just wanted you to think I liked the things you liked. The things I was supposed to like."

Marcel breathed out a huge sigh of relief when he was done, and looked at his friends.

"I-" Pat said, his brow furrowed. "Has it always been like that?"

Marcel nodded. "Yeah. I'm sorry I just...I just wanted to fit in with you guys." He said quietly, looking down. "I'm sorry."

"Marcey-" Eddie said, and Marcel flinched again. "We don't care if you don't like shopping and shit. That's so not why were friends with you."

Pat looked slightly disturbed. "Flannel, really?" Eddie elbowed him in the side, and Pat quickly recovered. "No, I mean- flannel is...it's..." He sighed, obviously unable to bring himself to say any nice words about the fabric. "We love you no matter what terrible clothes you want to wear," Pat said, squeezing his hand tightly. "Or terrible misjudgements you make about music."

Marcel laughed, his eyes tearing up again. "Oh god, I missed you guys."

Marcel felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned around to find Michael standing behind. Marcel grinned widely and stood up. "Guys, I have someone I want you to meet." He said, wrapping his arms around Michael's waist. "This is Michael, my boyfriend." He said, trying not to blush.

Pat's eyebrows shot up on his forhead, and Eddie's mouth opened a little. "Boyfriend?" They said together. Pat looked excited. "Oh my god Marcey, and he's wearing _flannel._" He bit down on his lip, and looked like he was going to cry again. "Soul mates."

Eddie scoffed, but Marcel barely heard it.

Michael laughed, and reached forward to shake Pat's hand. "S'nice to meet you," He said. "I've heard a lot about you guys."

"Is there a bathroom or something I could use?" Eddie asked, standing up violently.

"Uh, yeah." Marcel said. "It's right down the hall," He said, pointing to one of the halls that led out from the main room. Eddie stormed away, and he and Pat exchanged worried looks.

"Um, I should go make sure he's alright," Pat said, starting to stand up.

"No, I'll go." Marcel said, removing himself from Michael's side. He put a hand on his arm. "Entertain Pat." He said.

Michael nodded. "I'll show him my juggling routine." He said.

Marcel smiled, and kissed Michael on the cheek (eliciting a loud _awww _from Pat) and then followed after Eddie.

He found Eddie leaning over the sink, head down and shoulders hunched dramatically. He went up behind him, and put a hand gently on his shoulder. "Eddie, what's wrong?" He asked.

Eddie turned around, and gave him a tense look. "What's wrong?" He asked, a slightly wild look in his eyes. "What do you _think _is wrong?"

"I don't know," Marcel replied, trying to keep his voice even. "I never did develop those psychic powers I wanted."

Eddie scoffed and looked away, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black hoodie. "What's _wrong, _is you have a boyfriend." He muttered. He looked back up at him, a hurt expression replacing the angry one. "Why?"

Marcel shrugged, unsure how to answer that. "I don't know, Eddie. I didn't plan it...it just happened, you know? Michael and I just sort of-" He struggled to find the word. _"Connected, _I guess?_" _

"I really meant nothing to you, huh?" Eddie asked, sounding despaired. "Nothing at all."

"Eddie, please." Marcel said, taking Eddie's hands in his. "Of course you meant something to me- you _mean _something to me. Just- just not like that."

"Then what was it, huh?" Eddie demanded. "Why did you do it?"

Marcel gave him a weary look. "I thought Pat said it wasn't a thing anymore."

Eddie sighed. "It's not...I'm not mad- really," He said, when Marcel raised his eyebrow. "You were gone for so long...and I was so scared. I haven't had a decent night's sleep since you disappeared," He said quietly, stepping in closer. "Of course I'm not _mad _anymore I just...I don't know. I guess all this time I was holding onto some hope that I sort of...meant_ more _to you, than the others, I guess."

"I'm sorry, Eddie." Marcel whispered, resting his forehead against his friends. Eddie was only an inch taller than him, and he was one of the few people he could do so with with. "I was just stupid, and desperate for attention. And I wanted to feel like I was good at least _one _thing that queerf- that uh, gay people were supposed to do."

Eddie shut his eyes tightly. "That's really it? That's all it was?" He asked, sounding as though he was on the verge of tears.

Marcel put his hand on Eddie's cheek. He desperately wanted to lie to him, tell him that he had been more, much much more. But he owed him more than that. "I'm sorry," He whispered.

* * *

><p>"So, uh, what do you think is going on with them?" Michael asked, trying to sound casual. He didn't want to seem like he was jealous, but he was curious. Marcel had talked to him about his friends before, but he'd never mentioned anyone specifically. But it sorta seemed like there might have been more to his friendship with Eddie than just...friendship.<p>

"Whaddya mean?" Pat asked, sort of scratching at the back of his neck. Michael was beginning to see where Marcel had gotten that high, girly voice he sometimes slipped into. However, on Pat it seemed a lot more natural.

"I mean, what'd Eddie storm off for that Marcel had to go check on him about?" He clarified. "Did they used to..." He raised his eyebrows. "...you know?"

Pat bit his lip and looked at his lap, squirming uncomfortably. "We-ell..." He said, cringing a bit. "What has Marcel told you about the fight we had, right before he-" Pat broke off, and his eyes grew sad. "Well, you know right before what."

Michael nodded. "He hasn't told me anything. What'd you fight about?"

Pat looked hesitant. "I don't know if I should..."

"Pat, I promise, if Marcel hasn't told me about something it's because it hasn't come up yet. If he were here, he'd tell me. I'm just curious."

Pay hesitated for one more moment, and then leaned forward and put his hands on the table. "Alright, so here's the thing about us and Marcey," Pat began. Michael made a mental note to tell him to stop with the "Marcey" nick name. "And don't get mad, alright, but we sort of used to...fool around?" He said, an apologetic look on his face.

"You and Marcel?"

Pat looked up. "Uhh...just wait, 'kay?" Michael nodded, and Pat continued. "So, I mean, me and him would do stuff yeah, sorta like a friends with benefits type deal, right? Anyways, one day I confessed what we'd been doing to our friend Nate." He said, and then paused dramatically. "...and then Nate told me he was doing the same thing."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Fooling around with him?"

Pat nodded. "Yeah. So, I mean, we were both kind of hurt, even though we hadn't been _dating _or anything, and we never _said _we had to be monogamous...but I mean, when you're getting close to someone like that, you can't help but feel for them a little, right?" Pat sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. "And then we talked to Shane...and Kyle...and Eddie." He gave him a miserable look.

Michael blinked a few times. "Wow." Wow.

"Please don't be mad!" Pat pleaded.

"I'm not," Michael said. "I'm just...I mean woah."

Pat nodded. "Yeah...anyways, it was the worst for Eddie. See, he'd _already _had feelings for Marcey. Like, _intense _feelings. So when they started-" He raised his eyebrows, "y'know, he thought that meant Marcey liked him back. And when he found out, he like went nuts. He was so upset." Pat shook his head. "And then when Marcey went missing...well, it killed us all a little." He looked down. "Everything we'd said to him...we didn't know it was gonna be the last time we were gonna see him, y'know?"

Michael nodded. "He's not mad." He told him. "He missed you guys."

Pat gave him a small smile. "We missed him." He said quietly. "But Eddie...ever since we found out Marcey was ok, he was back...well, I think Eddie's kinda had it in his head that maybe they could work things out."

Michael nodded again slowly. "...But if Marcel has a boyfriend-"

"That can't happen, exactly." Pat finished. "I don't know what's killing him more, the idea that Marcel moved on, or that he didn't mean anything to him in the first place."

"I'm sure he meant something," Michael said. "Just...not what he wanted to mean."

* * *

><p>Eddie had finally stopped crying and fixed his eye liner, and Marcel turned to leave the washroom. Eddie grabbed his wrist and stopped him, and Marcel looked back at him, his eyebrows raised.<p>

"I'm sorry," Eddie said, slipping his hand down Marcel's wrist to hold his hand.

"For what?"

"For the things I said to you after I found out...when we were all fighting." Eddie said. "They were awful, and I'm- I'm so sorry..."

"It doesn't matter, Eddie." Marcel said, squeezing his hand. "I forgive you."

Eddie gave him a small smile. "It does matter though. None of them were true...and I hate myself for saying them."

Marcel looked at the ground. "They sort of were...I mean, I am sort of a slut," He mumbled. He shook his head. "You have no idea what Michael has to put up with."

Eddie put his hands on his shoulders, and Marcel looked up at him. "You're _not _a slut. You weren't then and you're not now. You're awesome. I only said all that crap because I was angry, and hurt and I'm _so _sorry for it." Eddie's hands slid down to his waist, and stepped in closer. "I never wanted to hurt you..."

Before Marcel knew what was happening, Eddie had him pinned against the wall and was kissing him with desperate intensity. Responding to the contact, Marcel wrapped his arms around Eddie's neck and kissed him back. Eddie thrust his pelvis against him, and Marcel moaned. "God, Marcey," Eddie breathed, moving his head and kissing along his neck. "I missed you so much..."

At the nickname, Marcel's eyes flew open and his shoulder's stiffened. "Eddie," He gasped, trying to get control of himself. He took his arms away from Eddie's neck, and put his hands on his chest. "Eddie, stop."

"Why?" Eddie demanded, not moving away. He pressed him closer to the wall. "I can tell you want it too."

Marcel shook his head. "No. This is what I mean, Eddie. I can't _help _myself. But I don't want it- I _don't._"

Eddie looked at him. "No?" He asked softly. Marcel shook his head, and Eddie quickly let go of him. "I'm sorry, Marcey. I- shouldn't have-"

"You should have asked," Marcel said, giving him a look. "And...and please don't call me Marcey." He said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Marcey's a girls name. I'm not a girl."

Eddie squinted at him. "I know that," He said, sounding hurt. "But...we've always called you Marcey."

"So did they," Marcel said, raising his eyebrows sadly.

It took Eddie a moment to grasp what he meant by that, and the look in his eyes once he had was heart-breaking. Marcel put his arms around him, and Eddie's shoulders began to shake. "It's ok, you didn't know," He soothed.

Eddie wasn't crying again- Marcel thought he might have run out of tears- but his body shook with silent tremors. He could feel Eddie's fingers digging into his back, clinging to him with a desperation that wasn't quite platonic.

"It's not fair," Eddie whispered, his head buried against Marcel's neck. "It's not fair."

Marcel wasn't sure about what he was referring to; there was so much unfairness in their lives.

It wasn't fair that he'd used the only friends he'd ever had, and betrayed all of their trust. It wasn't fair that they'd yelled and screamed at him, and called him terrible names.

It wasn't fair that none of them had ever been allowed to apologize, to reconcile.

It wasn't fair that he'd been kidnapped, or tortured or raped. It wasn't fair how Eddie had waited, praying his friend would be alright and that he'd get a chance to see him again and make things right. It wasn't fair that they could never love each other like he'd wanted.

None of it was fair, at all.

* * *

><p>Marcel was tired, but in a fairly good mood after his friends left. Even with his encounter with Eddie in the washroom, it had been really good to see his friends again. They'd left things on a good note, or at least he and Pat had. Things with Eddie had been left on as good a note as was possible. They'd both promised to come back soon, and maybe bring some of their other friends along.<p>

Marcel was looking forward to that.

It was later in the evening now, and Marcel and Michael were in their usual position on Michael's bed, with Michael sitting up against the wall, and Marcel lying down against his chest. Michael had his arms draped over Marcel's shoulders, and he lazily brushed his fingers over his chest.

"So, your friends are nice," Michael said. "Well, I mean Pat's nice. I didn't really get much from Eddie. Not saying he's not nice-" He added quickly. "Just...quiet."

Marcel snorted. "You'd think so. He's just like that until you get to know him. Then he doesn't shut up."

Michael was quiet for a moment. "He's in love with you, you know that right?"

"Well...I know he _thinks _he's in love with me," Marcel replied, fiddling with his hands. "I don't know about the actual validity of said love but-"

"What makes you say that?" Michael asked.

Marcel shrugged. "He barely knows me. I mean, he barely know the _real _me. I lied to him our whole friendship. The Marcel he knew loved to go out clubbing, and flirted with every cute boy he saw, and dropped down onto his knees every opportunity he got because he was a little slut."

Michael made a clicking noise with his tongue. "Shouldn't say stuff like that about yourself. If you wanted to fool around with guys, that's your prerogative. No reason you should be ashamed for it."

Marcel lowered his eyes. "But I didn't really. Want to, I mean."

"Still doesn't make you a slut." Michael said, brushing his thumb along the side of Marcel's face. "But so what if the Marcel he knew dressed differently, or acted differently...or had a different voice," He said, raising his eyebrows.

Marcel cringed. "You noticed that, huh?"

"You really expected me not to?" Marcel shrugged, and Michael sighed. "My point is, he could love anyways. If he thinks he loves you, and feels he loves you...who's to say he doesn't?" He shrugged. "Isn't that basically what love is? Thoughts and feelings."

"I wouldn't know," Marcel mumbled, squirming in Michael's arms. "My thoughts and feelings about love are all fucked up." He looked down at his hands. "I've been talking to Pete about that a lot, lately. About...about how my 'perception of love and connection has been skewed,'" He recited, imitating Pete's clinical tone. "He says it's gonna be a while before...before I can trust someone like that again...let myself love someone. If ever."

Michael nodded. "I know." He said, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "It's alright."

Marcel paused, and rolled over in Michael's arms. He put his hand on Michael's face, and looked him in the eye. "If I could love anyone, I would love you." He said, feeling his heart thud in his chest. He didn't know if that made any sense, or if Michael would understand, but it felt like the right thing to say. He needed Michael to know that even if he couldn't love, he could still feel _something. _A _lot _of something. Something that scared that crap out of him and made him want to run away and hide, but still be something he never wanted to stop feeling. Something that made him feel slightly nauseous to think about, but he wouldn't give up for the world. He didn't know what it was, but it was there and he needed Michael to know that.

The smile on Michael's face told him he did.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:*Tiffany's not stupid, she just wasn't really listening to Marcel to anymore when he asked if she was a lesbian. Also, Marcel may have been onto something, because I'm pretty sure Tiffany and Young started some sort of relationship behind my back, and haven't bothered to tell me about it until now.**

**Also, once again, just for the record- Marcel's opinion=/=my opinion. I like Lady Gaga. Although yeah I can't really stand Jessie J either. And I'm with Michael on shows like Toddler's in Tiara's. I can't watch them, I get way too angry.**


	16. Can't Take You Away From Me

**Can't Take You Away From Me**

"_The little voice in my head won't let me forget...the little voice in my head is never misled..." _

Marcel covered his ears and pressed his forehead against Michael's chest. "Dear god, _please _make it stop..."

"_...All of this noise is what keeps me from making a mess...the little voice in my head just won't let me get with you...La lala la la..."_

Michael smiled, and put an arm protectively over Marcel's head. "I like it." He said, nodding along to the music. "S'catchy."

Marcel groaned.

A few days before, Tiffany's mother had brought Tiffany's CD collection for her. And then Young had pointed out that the DVD player could play CD's, too.

Marcel had decided that he didn't like Young, at all. She was obviously evil. Evil evil evil.

He glared across the room, where Young was currently dancing around to Hilary Duff with Tiffany and Paige, who didn't seem to share his opinion. "Women," He muttered.

"Yes, damn them all." Michael said in a mocking tone.

"Lina, come dance!" Tiffany shouted, seeing her emerge from the girls dorms. The blond girl rushed over and grabbed Lina's wrist before she could get away. Despite the obviously terrified—and slightly repulsed—look on Lina's face, Tiffany pulled her towards Paige and Young anyways.

"Isn't it nice to see everyone so happy?" Michael asked, poking Marcel a few times on the arm. "Come on, that's got to be worth the bad music, right?"

Marcel looked up at him, without an answer. It was nice, certainly, to see the girls like this. Interacting with each other, smiling and laughing as though they were friends. Even Lina looked like she was enjoying herself, just a bit. Marcel knew she'd never had girl friends before.

The problem was it wouldn't last. It never did.

Almost on cue, Casey came over and tapped Michael on the shoulder. "You have a phone call, Michael." She said.

Michael raised his eyebrows. "Who is it?"

"Your mother."

"Is everything ok?" He asked, as Marcel moved out of his lap to allow him to get up off the couch.

Casey shrugged. "She didn't say. Only that she wanted to talk to you."

Michael nodded, and followed Casey out of the room. Marcel stared after him, a nervous feeling in his gut. He mentally went over all the possible horrors this phone call could bring. Was one of his relatives dead? Hospitalized? Was it serious? Maybe it was a family problem...were his parents divorcing? Did Michael have any siblings? Had something happened to them?

Michael came back a few minutes later, looking slightly nauseous. Marcel quickly turned off the music, ignoring the protests from the girls. "What happened?" He asked, as Michael came back over to the couch.

Michael shook his head. "Can I just...can I have a minute?" He asked numbly. Marcel nodded quickly. Michael sat down on the couch, his shoulders slumped slightly. "Do you think...I mean, do you think maybe I could lie down on you, and you could put your arms around me?" He asked, looking at the floor. He sounded almost embarrassed.

Marcel didn't say anything in response, he simply put his arms around Michael's shoulders and laid him back against his chest. Michael settled between his legs, and Marcel could feel him relax slightly. Marcel ran his fingers through Michael's hair, and waited patiently for him to tell him what happened.

"My Dad's coming to visit me," Michael said, after a few minutes had passed. He tilted his head back to look at Marcel. "That's what my Mom called to tell me."

Inwardly, Marcel was relieved. No one was dead or dying, thank god. To Michael, he simply said "Oh?"

Michael nodded, looking down again. "She—she told him about me." He said quietly. "About us..." He paused. "And now he's coming to visit."

Marcel took a moment to consider what that meant. "...Oh."

Michael squeezed his eyes closed. "Shit," He said, putting a hand over his eyes. Marcel brushed his fingers along Michael's cheek, trying to comfort him. Michael let his hand drop, and he opened his eyes and looked up at his boyfriend. Marcel continued to run his fingers lightly over Michael's face; over his cheeks, along his lips, down his jaw. He kept his other arm securely over Michael's chest.

"I've never been good enough for him," Michael said, looking off at the other side of the room. Marcel paused, his fingers against Micheal's temple. "Have you seen that movie, 'Stand By Me?'"

"The one where the kids go to find the dead body?" Marcel asked. Michael nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, you know how the main kid—Gordie—he had an older brother who was a big football player?" Marcel nodded again. "And how his old man only ever paid attention to the brother, because he was the son he'd always wanted and Gordie was just this scrawny little runt who wrote stories?" He nodded a third time. "Well, I'm Gordie."

"What?" Marcel asked, disbelieving. "Michael, I don't know what your definition of 'scrawny' is, but to the rest of the world, it's certainly not _you._"

"Doesn't matter," Michael mumbled. "Fact is, my brother's about twice my size. Which makes me the runt of the litter. The disappointments don't stop there, trust me."

"Tell me," Marcel said, wrapping both arms securely over his boyfriend. "Because I find it hard to believe there's a single disappointing thing about you."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Just wait. Alright, let's see...well, the main thing is probably my consistent inability to play a sport. _Any _sport. When I was like 10, my therapist suggested maybe organized sports would be a good way for me to deal with my anger. Y'know, give me some place to channel it or whatever." He snorted. "Yeah, right. Turns out I've got like zero coordination, and even less patience. When I couldn't do something, I got frustrated. And then I got angry. And _then _I wound up attacking whoever was closest to me. Usually my own team mates." He sighed. "Luckily they stopped before I got to baseball."

Marcel cringed. "Yeah, that woulda been bad."

Michael raised his eyebrows. "You're telling me. Anyways, after my sports failures, there was always the reading thing." He continued. "When I wasn't busy having a fit or picking a fight, I spent all my time holed up in my room with a book. In his opinion, not a worthy past time." He shook his head. "And the whole time I'm failing to live up to a single one of his expectations, my older brother Mitch is exceeding every fucking one of 'em. Great at like, _every _sport, a goddamned honour student—for all my reading, I never did better than a B. And...he was _popular. _People _liked _him he was- I don't know, charismatic or whatever. And here I was, this psycho little _freak _with skinned knuckles and a perpetual black eye..."

Michael let out a long breath, finishing his rant. Marcel waited a moment to make sure he was done, and then leaned down a little placed a kiss on the back of his ear. "You haven't gotten to the part that disappointments me yet."

Michael squirmed. "Yeah well, tell that to my Dad," He mumbled.

"I will," Marcel told him. "Because you're the greatest person I know, and if he can't see that then it's his loss." He said, tilting his head and leaving a string of kisses along Michael's neck. "Besides, I always had a thing for Gordie."

Michael made a face. "Bullshit; _no one _liked Gordie. Everyone liked Chris. Chris was the good-looking one."

"Gordie was the one I related to. The one I wished I'd known." He whispered. Michael was silent, and Marcel took that to mean he was wearing him down. He pressed his lips to Michael's ear again. "So you be my Gordie, and I'll be your Chris. The one who makes sure you know just how good you are. The one who makes you see everything I do."

Finally, Marcel saw Michael giving in as a small smile appeared on his face. "And I thought I was the hopeless romantic."

Marcel smiled. "I'm not a hopeless romantic, just hopelessly..." He trailed off, and his smile faltered a bit. What was the end of that sentence? Where had he been going with that? "Just hopeless." He finished.

* * *

><p>The next day, Michael and Marcel waited by the door for the arrival of Michael's father. He was 30 minutes late, and Michael was beginning to get fidgety. Which wasn't good, because Marcel was having trouble just keeping himself from shaking. He had no idea how he was supposed to keep himself together <em>and <em>calm down Michael. Michael was supposed to be the one who calmed _him _down.

They were both leaning against a table, and Marcel glanced at his boyfriend, who was digging his nails painfully into his arm. Marcel could see thin lines of red appearing where his nails pinched his skin. "Hey," He said, putting his hand over Michael's. Michael looked up at him, his eyes wide and scared. "Don't hurt yourself."

Michael glanced down at his arm, as though he hadn't even realized what he'd been doing. He removed his hand, and allowed Marcel to hold it.

"It's gonna be ok," Marcel said, giving his hand a squeeze. Michael gave him a weak smile, but Marcel could tell he didn't believe it. Marcel wasn't sure he believed it either, but he knew he should try and make Michael think he did. He just wasn't sure how.

Marcel leaned in closer, reaching up and resting his chin on Michael's shoulder—a feat only accomplished thanks to Michael's terrible posture. He began humming quietly in his ear. _"The way you wear your hat," _he sang softly. _"The way you sip your tea...no, no they can't take that away from me," _

Michael looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and Marcel blinked innocently at him. "What are you doing?" Michael asked. He sounded amused.

"Singing Frank Sinatra." Marcel whispered. He hummed a few more bars. _"No, no they can't take that away from me."_

A small smile appeared on Michael's lips, and he put his arm over Marcel's shoulders. The weight of Michael's arm was familiar and welcome, and Marcel snuggled closer to him, feeling a bit of warmth spread through him. He had no way of knowing if the gesture was as comforting to Michael as it was to him, but he hoped it was.

A buzzing sound from the door jerked them both out of the comfortable place they'd just begun to settle in, and Marcel found his stomach had suddenly dropped out of his body. He gripped Michael's arm.

Casey had gone towards the door, and pressed down on the intercorm to speak whoever it was that was in charge of the visitors on the other side. She turned around, and her eyes landed on Michael and Marcel, both clinging to the other. "Michael—" She began.

Michael nodded. "I know. Let him in," He said, sounding hoarse.

Marcel wracked his brain for something comforting or encouraging to say. "I- Michael...it's gonna be ok," He said, unable to come up with anything better.

"I hope so," Michael muttered. They both stood up as the door open, and Michael's father walked through. Marcel thought he felt a shiver go through Michael.

When Michael got angry, his eyes seemed to darken and grow cloudy, as though they were seeing the world through some sort of haze. Marcel had only seen him like that a few times, he was still able to recognize the same look in the eyes of Michael's father.

Before Marcel had time to process the fact that they should probably move away from each other, Michael's father had already grabbed Michael's arm and wrenched him away. "Come on, we need to talk," His father growled, shaking Michael by his arm. Michael's father wasn't huge, not in comparison to Marcel's own father, but he was taller than Michael by a good three inches, and considerably broader.

"Dad, calm down," Michael tried. "We can talk here."

"Don't you tell me to calm down," His Dad seethed, and for a moment sent a withering glance in Marcel's direction. "I want to talk to that _therapist _of yours."

Michael sent Marcel an apologetic look, before being hauled off down the hall by his father, leaving Marcel to stare helplessly after.

He stared after him for a few more minutes, trying to sort through the panicky numbness in his head. Eventually he felt an arm slide around his waist, giving him a reassuring squeeze. The light scent of coconut cream moisturizer told him it was Lina. "It's gonna be ok, sweetie. He'll be fine."

"And if it's not?" Marcel asked.

"Then you'll deal." She said simply.

Marcel glowered. "I don't want to."

Lina gave him a pitying smile, and pressed her lips against his ear. "Nobody does." She whispered in a thick voice. She placed a kiss against him, just beneath his ear lobe.

Marcel nodded slowly. Lina's kiss reminded him of something, something he'd been putting off. In dire need of a distraction, Marcel decided that now was the time to deal with it. "Lina...I gotta talk to you about something."

Lina raised her eyebrows. "Uh-huh?"

"It's...well, I've been thinking, and...I don't think we should really fool around anymore." He said, taking her hand in his. "It's just not fair, you know? To you, or Michael."

Lina's lower lip began to tremble. "You—you don't want to be my friend anymore?" She asked, sounding on the verge of tears.

"No!" Marcel insisted. "No no that's _not _what I'm saying. Of course I still want to be your friend. I mean, fuck besides Michael, you're like my _best _friend. I don't want anything between us to change, except for the part where you sometimes give me a hand job."

She furrowed her brow. "Why?"

"Because that's not why I like you, and I want to make sure you know that. You're a lot more than that, Lean."

Lina looked away. "I appreciate that...but we both know it's not true."

"No, we don't. I don't, and you might _think _it's not true, but you'd be wrong. Way wrong." Marcel put two fingers on her chin, and turned her face towards him. "Lina, you were the first person that spoke to me when I got here. When I was scared and miserable, you brought me food and you talked to me. You made me feel like I wasn't alone here. _You_ may not think so, but I know you are sweet and kind, and one of the loveliest people I know."

Lina sniffed, and a single tear ran down her cheek. "You...you really think that?"

Marcel nodded. "I do."

Lina smiled, and threw her arms around Marcel. "You're my best friend too," She said, squeezing him tight.

Marcel smiled, and hugged her back, glad this had gone well.

Lina and Marcel hugged each other, and were enjoying a nice moment together when it was interrupted by the reappearance of Michael's father. If it was possible, he looked even angrier than he had before.

He stormed by them on the way to the door, but then paused and turned around on his heel, his eyes locked on Marcel. _"You!" _He seethed.

Marcel found himself shrinking under the hate in his eyes. "Mr. Eisenberg, sir, I-"

"I don't want to hear it," He said, his voice rising in volume as he approached. "You should be ashamed of yourself for what you've done! You took advantage of my son when he was sick and vulnerable and you _brainwashed _him with your diseased lifestyle."

"_Excuse me?" _Marcel said, unable to believe what he was hearing. "I didn't _brainwash _him."

"Yes, you did." Michael's father said. "He was sick and came here to get better and instead you—you _molested _him and made him think—"

"I didn't do anything!" Marcel shouted into his face. "Michael and I are together because he _likes _me, something he decided of his own free will!"

"That's what you want him to think! Sure! Of course he _believes _you, his mind was _weak _and you come along filling his head with all kinds of lies—"

"Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!" Marcel screamed. "You're _wrong! _About everything! Michael's mind is _anything _but weak and if you'd bothered to visit more than _twice _in the last year you'd know that!" He took a step back, his shoulders shaking with rage. "But you don't know a goddamned thing about him."

"And you do?" He snarled through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, yeah I do." Marcel said. "I know that I care about him, and that I'm _always _gonna be there for him when he needs me. Can you say the same?"

Michael's father gave him a disgusted look and turned around with out another word, heading towards the door.

"And you know what?" Marcel called after him. "You don't _deserve _to know him either! You don't deserve a goddamned thing from him you piece of—"

"Sweetie, he's gone." Lina said, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Marcel crossed his arms "Yeah I can see that." He mumbled. He looked around, and a few dots connected in his mind. "Hey...where's Michael?" He said, his mood instantly shifting from furious to worried. "He didn't come out with his Dad."

Lina chewed on her lower lip, and looked around us well. "Uh, maybe he's—oh, he's right over there." She said, spotting Michael emerging from the hallway.

"Michael!" Marcel exclaimed, rushing over to him. Something tightened around Marcel's heart—Michael looked like he'd just been through hell. "Where were you?"

"I just needed a minute to calm down." Michael mumbled, looking at the ground as Marcel took his hands in his own and held them. He paused, and lifted his eyes up and surveyed Marcel, a little bit of light returning to his eyes. "...was that you yelling a minute ago?"

"Uh...maybe." Marcel said.

"What happened?" Michael asked. His eyes grew wide, and he clutched Marcel's hands. "My Dad didn't say something to you, did he?"

Marcel hesitated. "...why don't we go lie down?" He suggested.

Michael gave him a look, but allowed himself to be led into the boys dorms anyways. They went into Michael's room, and Marcel sat down on the bed and opened his arms up to Michael, who lay down in them.

Marcel run his fingers gently through Michael's hair as Michael settled against his chest, setting his cheek against him and wrapping his arms around his waist. He waited for Michael to say something, to tell him what had happened with his father. However, after several minutes had passed and Michael continued to lie there, without saying a word, Marcel decided to say something himself. "Michael—"

"He wants to take me away," Michael said.

Marcel's mouth went dry. "W—what?"

"He wants me out of here, wants to take me home." Michael squeezed his eyes shut, pushing tears down from his lashes and rolling over his cheeks. "Wants to take me away from _you._"

Marcel found himself blinking rapidly, trying to process that. "But—what did your therapist say?"

"That it's not up to him, it's up to her and the hospital to decide when I'm ready to leave."

Marcel felt the tightness in his chest loosen a little. "Well, it's alright then, isn't it?"

Michael shook his head, his grip on Marcel's waist tightening painfully. "He said he didn't care, that he was the one who paid the bills and if he wanted me home I was coming home. And told him if he took me away like this now, it could undo all the progress I'd made...b-but he just kept _shouting, _about how he was going to sue the hospital and about me a-and you a-and _us _and—" Michael took a breath and Marcel continued to listen, helpless to stop the tears streaming down his boyfriends face. "And the things he _said, _Mars—it was so—he was so—" Michael shook his head again. "_And I didn't say anything._"

Marcel raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"W-when he was going on and on about you and me and saying all these..._awful _things I didn't say anything. I just there and let him and I didn't say a thing and I should have b-but—" Michael sat up suddenly and looked Marcel in the eye, and the look Michael gave him almost broke Marcel's heart. "I knew that if I made a single move, I was gonna kill him. I swear I was."

Before Marcel could say anything, Michael had dropped his head back against his chest and was sobbing into it harder than ever.

"No—Michael, please, you did the right thing." Marcel said, running his fingers though Michael's hair again as he attempted to reassure him. He could feel Michael's head shaking in protest."You _did,_" He said. "I'm proud of you. You knew you wouldn't be able to control yourself so you said nothing—that was the _right _thing to do, I promise."

Michael just shook against him in response, and Marcel gave up on saying anything. He knew sometimes there just wasn't anything that could be said. Sometimes you just needed to cry, and wait for the bad feelings to pass. So Marcel just held him close, and ran his fingers through his hair, and they waited together.

Michael's tears slowed after a little while, and eventually his shoulders stopped shaking as well. Marcel glanced down at him, to see if he'd fallen asleep, and saw Michael staring vacantly at the wall across from him, blue eyes cloudy and unfocused.

Marcel brushed his fingers along the side of Michael's face, and rested his hand against his cheek. "They can't take you away from me." He whispered, and Michael's eyes closed slowly. "No...no they can't."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I think small parts of me die when Michael cries.**

**Also, the song Marcel sings is "They Can't Take That Away From Me" originally by Fred Astaire, but Marcel is singing the Frank Sinatra cover because Frank Sinatra is the one he likes.**

**Marcel doesn't know it yet, because he hasn't had a whole lot of time to explore who he is, but he's one of those kids with the exact same taste in music as his father.**

**And Michael and Marcel don't know it, but the song "Cat's in the Cradle" by Harry Chapin in one of both of their favourite songs. See if you can figure out why.**


	17. Can We Talk?

**Can We Talk?**

Marcel sat in Michael's lap, his head resting against Michael's shoulder. On TV, there was an infomercial about a pair of scissors that could cut through shoes, but neither of them could be bothered to change the channel. Neither of them could have been bothered to do much of anything for the past few days, especially if it involved moving.

True to his word, Michael's father hadn't given up on his demands that Michael leave the bin and come home. Michael's mother had called the day before to try and reassure Michael that they were _not _going to pull him out before he was ready, no matter what his father said. She'd insisted that they both loved him very much, and that would never change.

Michael had been able to hear his father shouting in the background the entire time.

"He just needs some time," Marcel mumbled. "To adjust to things and all."

"What he needs is to get in a Delorean, go back 17 years and wear a condom." Michael replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

Marcel scoffed. "Oh, thats good. So you wouldn't exist?" He said, raising his eyebrows. Michael shrugged. "Hmm, I wonder where _I'd _be. Still here, of course..." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I'd probably be involved with Finn—God knows he couldn't have rejected me forever—and I'm sure that'd be perfectly healthy, for us both. And anytime I panicked, or started crying...well, I guess I'd just be left to suffer, all by myself. Shaking and crying, with no one to put their arms around me and tell me it was alright—"

"Ok, ok I take it back!" Michael cried, dropping his head against Marcel's shoulder. "Just stop, please."

Marcel put his hand on Michael's cheek, and Michael looked up at him. "Do you still love me?" He asked.

Michael blinked, surprised at the question. "You know I do, Mars."

"Well, that's the most important thing then." Marcel whispered. "Your Dad'll come around one day, but no matter what happens, I'm going to be with you, okay? We can handle it, no matter what _it _is."

Michael sucked in a deep breath, and put his hand on the back of Marcel's head, pulling it forward so their foreheads rested against each other. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

They stayed like that for a few moments, and Marcel would have been content to never move again, but Michael stiffened suddenly and turned away. "What's wrong?" Marcel asked.

Michael furrowed his brow. "Look," He mumbled, looking across the room. Marcel followed his gaze to where Finn and Paige were standing near the entrance, along with two boys standing with their arms wrapped around each other. One was shorter, with curly hair and a slightly displeasured look on his face, as though he'd smelled something unpleasant. The other was slim, with pale skin and dark circles under his eyes. Marcel stiffened at the sight of him.

"Do you think—" Michael began.

"Yeah." Marcel said.

"Which one though?"

"The taller one," Marcel said instantly.

"How can you tell?" Michael asked.

Marcel chewed his lip. "I just can...I can see."

Marcel looked at Finn's step-brother, and his stomach churned. There was something horribly familiar about the look in his eyes and the way he seemed to be leaning away from Finn and at the same time, leaning towards him. Marcel felt Michael put a hand over his, and he realized he'd had his fingers curled up into a fist, his nails digging into the soft palm of his hand. He loosened his fist, and let out a slow breath.

"What's his name?" Marcel asked.

Michael turned back around. "Kurt."

Marcel nodded, turning around as well. "Kurt," He repeated. "Kurt."

Marcel began chewing his lip again, trying to sort through why it felt like the acids in his stomach had suddenly become carbonated. "Are you gonna try and talk to him after?" Michael asked.

Marcel shrugged. He knew he wanted to, a lot, but he wasn't sure it was the best idea. "I don't know...Finn probably won't like that. I doubt he'd want me anywhere _near _Kurt, so I can't _molest _him..."

Michael squeezed his shoulder. "I guess it's probably a good thing you don't give a shit about what Finn thinks."

Marcel frowned. "Well...what do _you _think?"

"I think that you really look like you want to talk to him. And if you do, then you should. Forget what anyone else says."

Slowly, Marcel nodded. "Alright...I just...I think it could be good for me, you know?" He said, leaning back against Michael's shoulder. "To talk to someone who could maybe get what happened to me...maybe he could help me sort out how to deal with all this crap I'm always feeling, you know?"

Michael was slow answering. "...Yeah," He said after a minute. "Right."

"Hi guys!" Paige shouted, jumping on the couch and nearly sending Marcel and Michael flying off of it. "Oh, did I scare you?"

"_No, _of course not,_" _Marcel said through gritted teeth. He clutched his heart, which was beating 10 times it's usual rate. "What would give you that idea?"

Paige grinned. "I'm just gonna ignore your sarcasm and say 'good,' and then introduce you to my new friend Blaine." She said, gesturing to the shorter boy who'd been standing with Kurt.

Blaine gave them a tense smile. "Uh, hi, I guess." He said.

Michael nodded, and Marcel narrowed his eyes. For no particular reason he could think of, he decided he didn't like Blaine. Possibly it had something to do with the slightly freaked out expression on his face, as though he thought at any moment one of the crazies in the bin might attack him.

Paige and Blaine sat down in two of the white plastic chairs by the TV, and Marcel repositioned himself on Michael, lying so his head was resting against Michael's chest.

"So...Paige," Blaine said, sounding uncomfortable. "How long have you, um...been here?"

"Michael and I've both been here almost a year now," Paige said.

"Wow," Blaine said. "That's uh...that's a long time."

Marcel rolled his eyes. "What he means is, 'wow, you're really crazy, huh?'" Marcel mumbled, too quiet for anyone but Michael to hear. He felt Michael kiss the top of his head, and he smiled.

"I should be getting out soon though," Paige continued. "You should too, right Michael?"

Michael shrugged. "Barring interference from my asshole Dad, Kay says I've got another month or two. But then I'm gonna be an out-patient for a while so..." He shrugged again.

"Yeah, me and Finn too." Paige chirped. "Finn's nervous as heck but I'm looking forward to seeing George," She said. Marcel could almost hear her beaming. "Blaine goes to school with George, you know."

Michael nodded. "Yeah, I heard him telling Finn a while ago. Messed up. I bet George shit himself when he saw Kurt the first time."

"He did not," Paige protested. "George is far too hygienic for that."

"Whatever," Michael mumbled.

"Pa-aige, who's your _friend?_" Lina asked, sauntering over and leaning against the couch. She batted her eyelashes at him, and Blaine looked away uncomfortably. Michael raised his eyebrows at her, obviously questioning Lina's taste. Marcel simply questioned Lina's gay-dar, which was truly proving to be quite poor.

"A fag," Marcel said.

Lina's face fell. "Oh," She said, straightening up and dropping the flirtatious tone from her voice.

Blaine's mouth opened a bit. "Ex_cuse _me?"

Lina glanced at Blaine for a second, then turned back to Marcel. "Not your type?" She asked, basing the assumption off Marcel's choice to remain curled up in his boyfriends lap. Marcel made a face at her, and snuggled closer to Michael, who in turn cracked a smile. Lina laughed.

Blaine watched the exchange with an insulted and slightly confused look on his face, and Paige scrunched her nose at them. "Don't listen to them Blaine," She said, giving him a reassuring pat. "They're mean to everyone."

"It's easy to judge people you don't understand," Michael said, with a pointed look at Paige.

Paige's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she clasped her hands in her lap. "Oh...I didn't mean—" Her shoulders sank. "You're right, Michael." She said, ashamed. "I'm really sorry Marcel."

Marcel raised his eyebrows. "And...?"

Paige's jaw tightened a little. "...And Lina."

Lina flashed her a wide smile. "You're self-abasement sustains me, Paige darling," She said, striding back towards the girls dorms.

Paige scrunched up her nose again and glared after Lina.

* * *

><p>"What do you think they're talking about?" Blaine asked, staring intently at the private visiting room where Finn and Kurt had disappeared together roughly 20 minutes prior.<p>

Marcel snorted. "They're not _talking,_" He said, not bothering to look at Blaine as he spoke. He was focused on Michael's chest, and he traced wide circles over it with his finger, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt and wishing he could get a chance to _see _them already. "They're probably fucking."

Paige made a disgusted noise. "First of all, no. Just, so much 'no.'" She said. Marcel rolled his eyes. "Second of all, even if not for the previously stated no-ness of the situation, those rooms are monitored."

"How closely, do you think?" Michael asked, glancing over at Blaine.

Paige hesitated. She knew as well as anyone that security in the bin was no where as tight as it should have been. "...Probably closely."

"They're not doing anything besides talking, and possibly crying, I'm sure." Blaine said. Marcel almost laughed at the forced determination in his voice.

"Face it, your boyfriend basically has 'fuck me roughly' stamped on his ass." Marcel muttered.

"Shut up." Blaine snapped. "Don't you dare talk about Kurt like that."

Marcel's head snapped towards Blaine, and he dropped his hand from Michael's chest. "Really? I don't _dare _talk like that?" He asked, truly amused at how delusional this guy obviously was. "Look, Prep School, I can recognize a fellow fuck-puppet when I see one, ok?" He said, sitting up as he spoke. "Now you can hide inside your trust-funded glass box all you want, and tell yourself that he's hiding with you and it's enough, but deep down you know that Finn will always have a part of him you can't even touch."

Marcel was practically out of Michael's lap now, and Michael put his arms around him and pulled him back into his lap, holding him tightly. "You don't mean it, Mars," He murmured into his ear. "You know you don't. Come on, just ignore each other." Michael kissed his ear, and Marcel allowed himself to relax back against him.

Michael glanced at Blaine. "He doesn't mean that." He explained.

"Do too." Marcel mumbled, resuming his previous occupation and tracing circles over Michael's chest.

"No, you don't." Michael said, giving him a light squeeze. He turned back to Blaine. "And it's irreverant anyways, because it's not true."

"Irrelevant." Marcel corrected. He could never understand how someone who read as much as Michael could mess up words so often. More over, he could never understand why he continued to find it so adorable.

Michael blinked. "What did I say?"

Marcel smiled a little. "Irreverant."

Michael shrugged, indifferent to his confused vocabulary. "Close enough. Besides, point stands, s'not true. Finn took something from Kurt, sure, but that's different than owning a part of him."

Marcel frowned, his hand pausing on Michael's chest. There was a cold feeling in his stomach, and a whisper in his ear that no, that wasn't true. He knew it wasn't, as a shiver ran through him, chilling the six empty parts of him that would always be owned by someone else.

* * *

><p>"What if he doesn't want to talk to me?" Marcel whispered, quiet enough so that it wouldn't be over heard by Blaine and Paige, who were standing a few feet away. They were all waiting by the door of the private visiting room, and Marcel had begun to panic a little.<p>

"Why wouldn't he?" Michael asked, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around Marcel's waist.

"Why _would _he?" Marcel shot back. "I'm just some random kid in a mental institution, why would he even bother to waste his time with me?"

"Because you'll make big puppy dog eyes at him and if he has any kind of soul he won't be able to say no." Michael said. He leaned down and pecked Marcel on the cheek, and Marcel sighed.

"You better be right, boyfriend." He mumbled.

The door opened a moment later, and Kurt and Finn came out. Both their eyes were lined with red, and they looked exhausted.

"Hi," Marcel said, giving Kurt a nervous smile.

Kurt raised his eyebrows at him. "Uh, hi."

"I'm Marcel." He said quickly, offering Kurt his hand.

Kurt smiled, and reached forward to shake it. "I'm Kurt."

"We know." Michael said.

Kurt's brow furrowed at that, and he glanced around apprehensively. Marcel knew it couldn't have been pleasant for to be surrounded by people who knew what had happened to him.

"Alright well this is nice and all," Finn jumped in. "But Kurt and Blaine have places to go that are far away from here so—"

"Yes, we do." Blaine agreed, putting his arm protectively around Kurt's waist.

"Oh." Marcel said quietly. He glanced at the ground, rethinking his plan. Up close, Kurt was sort of intimidating. He was exactly the kind of person Marcel had spent years trying to be. His voice was high and breathy, his clothes were fashionable...he was tall and beautiful. It may not have been anything Marcel_ wanted _to be (besides tall...he would have very much liked to be taller) but it still felt like he was being reminded of all of his shortcomings, just by standing near him.

Michael gave him a small nudge, and Marcel bit down on his lip and told himself to suck it up. If he backed out, there was no way Michael was going to accept "but he was so shiny" as an excuse. "I was sort of hoping that I could talk to you or something." He managed, forcing himself to meet Kurt's eyes.

Kurt looked surprised, but before he had a chance to respond, Finn had taken a step in front of him.

"No." Finn said. "That's a bad idea."

"Why?" Michael asked, narrowing his eyes at Finn. "He can talk to him if he wants."

"I think you know why it's a bad idea." Finn said. He glanced at Marcel, who made wide innocent eyes at him, as per Michael's instructions. Finn seemed to hesitate a little. "Look I'm sorry dude, but I don't think you can pretend I'm not totally justified here."

"I know you are. But I promise I won't touch him." Marcel said. He turned to Kurt. "I promise, I won't."

"Uh, I can't believe I'm saying this—" Blaine cut in. "I mean, I really can't...but I sort of agree with Finn." He cringed.

"That's awesome for you." Michael snapped. "But it's not actually up to you. Or Finn. Or me. It's up to them."

Marcel gave Michael a grateful smile, before turning back to Kurt, who looked a little a stunned. "Will you talk to me? Just for a bit? Please?" He asked, his eyes wide and pleading.

Kurt bit his lip, and glanced at Blaine for a moment before turning back to Marcel and nodding.

Marcel smiled, feeling relieved. "We could go in there." He said, gesturing to the private room that Kurt and Finn had just come out of.

"No. No way. That's a bad, bad idea." Finn said, shaking his head. He looked at Marcel. "If you two are gonna talk, I want it to be some place Michael can keep a firm hold on you."

In an instant, Marcel felt Michael drop his arms from around his waist, and step way from him "Fuck you." Michael snapped at Finn. "He doesn't need to be kept on some leash and I won't do that."

"Michael, I mean he's got a point." Marcel said quietly.

Michael glared at Finn. "Fuck that." He put his hand on Marcel's shoulder. "You're a person, Mars, and you're gonna do what you want." He said, raising his eyebrows. He looked back at Finn, and gritted his teeth. "Got it?"

"Look, Marcel I don't know you very well." Blaine said, trying to ease the tension. "But I do know Kurt, and I trust him. So I know nothing is going to happen."

"No, that's not what I'm worried about." Finn said. He looked at Kurt. "I'm not worried about you doing something with him. I'm worried about him trying something on you."

"Just so you know, I'm not legally responsible if I punch you right now." Michael growled, his fists curled up into tight balls. Marcel took his hand in his his, and gave it a small squeeze, and Michael allowed his fist to loosen.

"Look, he says he won't try anything and I believe him. So does Michael." Kurt said, speaking up for the first time. "And if he does, I'm sure I can take him, ok?"

"He's stronger then you think." Finn insisted.

"So is Kurt." Blaine replied. Kurt smiled at him.

"So it's settled." Kurt said, grabbing Marcel's wrist. Marcel looked down at Kurt's hand, surprised at the contact. "We're going to talk, and you're going to wait out here and see who has the most macho glare."

* * *

><p>Inside the visiting room, there was a table set up with a few chairs on either side, but Marcel and Kurt chose to ignore them and instead opted to sit on the table itself. Marcel wrapped his arms tightly over his shoulders, trying to figure out how to start, or what he wanted to say at all. Kurt gave him an expectant look.<p>

"I know it's probably weird for me abduct you like this," Marcel said slowly. "But I just—I don't know. No one else really knows..." He paused, and gave Kurt a searching look. Kurt inclined his head a little, as if to say "Yeah, I know."

"I mean, my friend Lina does I guess." Marcel continued. "Her uncle raped her several times when she was younger, so she knows. But she doesn't like to talk about it. She won't, actually. She just shuts down. So I stopped bringing it up." He looked up slowly. "But I just...I need to. Talk about it." It was strange, considering how he'd put off talking about anything for so long, but now it seemed he couldn't wait to unload everything. It was too much to keep inside anymore.

Kurt was giving him a slightly pitying look. "Isn't that what the therapists are here for?"

Marcel shrugged. "Yeah, but they don't understand. They just tell me how I should feel. They just tell me what happened and how I'm feeling about it. They don't _know._" He looked Kurt in the eye. "I thought you might."

Kurt nodded again. "What did you want to talk about exactly?"

Marcel looked away again, and he tightened his grip on his own shoulders. He wanted to tell him, he did, but the words seemed almost stuck in his throat. He'd kept them there for so long, and now they refused to come out. Marcel felt Kurt move a little closer to him, and put an arm around his shoulder. Marcel stiffened for a moment, and looked at Kurt, wondering what he was doing. Didn't they both promise they wouldn't do anything?

There was a kind look in Kurt's eyes, and Marcel let out a slow breath. An arm over his shoulder didn't mean he wanted anything, he reminded himself.

Marcel took a deep breath, and forged on. "I was just wondering, if—when Finn left you, I mean. When he was gone did you—" He swallowed, shutting his eyes against a sudden flood of tears. "Did you miss him?"

Marcel felt Kurt stiffen, and he glanced away for a moment, his jaw tightening. A minute passed before he answered. "...Everyday." He said eventually. "The first few months after he left, I missed him everyday."

Marcel nodded, and concentrated the wall across from him as he let Kurt's words sink in. He hadn't wanted to believe Pete, when he'd told him that missing his captors was normal. That others felt the same way. That someone could understand, _really _understand what it felt like to love the people who'd hurt you beyond repair. To hate the ones who'd taken you away from them, and resent the ones that told you to move on.

"I miss them." Marcel said quietly, his voice breaking as tears welled up in his eyes. "All of them."

_"All of them?_" Kurt asked, sounding horrified.

Marcel nodded quickly. "I know I shouldn't—shouldn't miss them. I mean, they abandoned me, they didn't want me anymore." He buried his face in his hands, and Kurt hugged him closer as he began to sob. "But I can't help it. I want them b-back." His shoulders heaved a few times as he tried to breath properly and get control over himself. "God, that's so fucked up, right?" He looked at him, lifting his tear-streaked face up from his hands. "I'm fucking nuts, huh?"

Kurt paused. "Well...kind of. But hey, you're not being judged by anyone here." He smiled, and Marcel snorted, offering a meagre attempt at a smile in return. "After...after Finn left me, I was pretty fucked up too. I used to—used to think about him and touch myself. I used to hurt myself like he used to hurt me, and get off on it. On the pain." Kurt swallowed. "In fact, I didn't think I could get off without it."

Marcel's heart began to beat faster. "Me too." He said suddenly, grabbing Kurt's arm. "I get off on pain too. I can't help it. It's like they're parallel feelings now."

Kurt nodded. "Exactly. Like one doesn't exist without the other." He smiled. "But the thing is, they do. The good feelings...the pleasure feelings," Kurt cringed a bit at his own words. "They exist by themselves too. And they're so much better when the pain isn't there. When you have someone touching you, softly, making you feel warm and good—"

"I know that too." Marcel said, feeling a bit frantic. "I—it's not just pain. That's not the only thing that does it for me. Soft caresses and strokes, and lips on your skin," He babbled, his thoughts turning to Ace, whom he missed most off all. "...fingers through your hair...I know how good all of that feels."

Kurt furrowed his brow, looking confused. "How—"

"There were so many of them, and they were all so different." Marcel said, running his fingers through his hair. "They all had different ways of doing things, different ways of getting me off..." His lip trembled. "So, so now it's like...everything. Everything makes me horny and it's just—just all the time, y'know?"

Kurt nodded. "Yeah, I do."

"It feels like I've been ripped into 6 different people that are always screaming and crying and fighting with each other, and the only thing they can agree on is being angry and wanting to fuck." He looked up at Kurt, his eye tired and pleading. "I don't want to feel like this anymore. It's _over._ They left me, and they're not coming back. It's done and I want to be done with feeling this way." He shook his head angrily. "Fuck I mean they're my goddamned feelings aren't they? I should be able to tell them what they can and cannot want."

"It doesn't work like that." Kurt said quietly.

Marcel scoffed. "No, I need to sit around here, waiting for doctors to fix poor ruined me up. Bandage my broken psyche with medication and therapy."

"It doesn't work like that either." Kurt continued. "The doctors, the therapy and medication, even your friends here...they can all help you, help get you ok again, but in the end you're the only one who can put yourself back together."

"H-how?" Marcel asked, tears rolling down his cheeks again.

"Well, a lot of it is just accepting the help being offered to you. Listening to what your therapist has to say, taking your medication and so on...but you also need to have the strength to believe that you can and will get better. And when you are, it won't be because of the doctors or anyone else. It will be because of you. Because you were strong enough."

Marcel wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "How do you know?"

Kurt opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it again slowly as a strange look came over his face. He was quiet for a minute, and Marcel raised his eyebrows.

"Kurt?" Marcel said. "How do you know?"

Kurt looked down at him, and gave him a reassuring smile. "Because I did it." He simply. "I did."

Marcel sniffed. "And...and you think I could do it too?"

Kurt nodded. "Yeah, I do. It won't be easy...in fact, it's probably going to be the most difficult thing you've ever done. But it _is _possible for you to feel better. _Be _better, so to speak."

"I want to get better, I do." Marcel said. "It just...sometimes it feels so _impossible. _Like there are giant pieces of me missing and I'll never get them back."

"I know. I used to feel the same way...like I was broken, shattered. But it's not true. Not about either of us." Kurt said. He ran his hand down Marcel's arm, rubbing up and down. "You're all right here, Marcel. None of you is missing, I promise. You're a little mixed up right now, but you're whole."

Marcel looked into Kurt's eyes, wanting to believe him more than anything. He wanted to believe he would be alright, and one day he wouldn't feel this way anymore. He wanted it so badly he could taste it.

Kurt looked back at him, with a small smile on his lips. "You'll be alright, Marcel." He said quietly, putting two fingers under his chin and lifting it up slightly. Kurt placed a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. "You're stronger then you think."

Marcel felt slightly breathless, and he swallowed and gave Kurt a shaky smile. "Thank you," He mumbled.

Kurt smiled again. "Come on, let's go out to our boys."

Marcel nodded, and Kurt went to open the door, but at the last second Marcel grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Wait," He said. Kurt turned back around and looked at him. "Blaine...he's your boyfriend, right?" Marcel asked.

Kurt looked surprised. "Uh, yeah." He said. "For a while now."

Marcel nodded, and looked at his feet. "...Do you love him?"

Kurt smiled. "Yeah, I do. More than I ever thought I could."

Marcel's voice wavered a bit as he asked his next question. "Do...do you think I could?"

Kurt reached over and put his hand on the back of Marcel's neck, and he looked into his eyes. "I think you already might."

* * *

><p>Marcel had been quiet since Kurt had left, with the promise that he would come back soon and a kiss on his cheek. Michael had refrained from immediately grilling Marcel about what they'd spoken about, telling himself that if Marcel wanted to tell him, he would.<p>

However, it was night time now, and Marcel had barely said a thing to him or anyone for a good three hours, and Michael's curiosity was beginning to overwhelm him. _What _had they talked about? Had it helped? Would Marcel be able to talk about it with him now, or would it still be something Marcel could only share with someone like Lina or Kurt, who knew first hand what he'd gone through? Was he going to need to talk to Kurt again like this? Had he simply exhausted the things he could confide in Michael?

They were in the washroom, standing next to each other as they got ready for bed. It would be the last time he'd have a chance to talk to him before they went off to their separate rooms, and Michael knew that if he didn't say something he wasn't going to sleep at all.

Michael had just finished brushing his teeth, and his rinsed his mouth out with tap water as Marcel washed his face with some special soap he'd gotten from Lina. Michael liked it, because it made Marcel's face smell like a peach.

"So..." Michael said slowly, as Marcel dried his face with a towel. "You and Kurt had a nice talk?"

Marcel shrugged. "I'm not sure 'nice' is the right word...he gave me a lot to think about, I guess." Marcel gave him an apologetic smile. "That's why I've been so quiet."

Michael nodded. "Yeah, no right of course." He said. "I mean, that's cool."

"Yeah...it was good, talking to him," Marcel said, stepping closer and looking off towards the ground. "It made me feel a lot less...I don't know..."

"Alone?" Michael supplied, his chest tightening at the word.

Marcel shook his head and took another step closer, so their chest were almost pressed up against each other and Michael could smell the faint scent of peach wafting off Marcel. Marcel took his hand, and looked up at him. "Not alone...how could I ever feel alone when I have you?" He asked, tilting his head to the side.

Michael swallowed, and his lips parted slightly as Marcel reached up and pressed a soft kiss against them. Marcel put a hand on his chest as they kissed. Marcel leaned back and looked at him, absently brushing his thumb against his shirt. He smiled, and made to turn away but Michael put his arms around him and pulled him back in.

"You do though," He said, still slightly incoherent. "Have me, I mean. I'm yours...in every way."

Marcel nodded. "I know," He said, closing the small distance between them and putting his arms around Michael's waist. Marcel pressed his face into the crook of Michael's neck, and Michael held him tight, breathing in Marcel's sweet scent.

Maybe it wasn't as crazy as he'd thought it was, to think that one day, Marcel might be his too.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Looong chapter. But we're basically done with Recovery now! Everything that happens now will be brand spankin new material. it gives me tingles, thinking about it. I can do whatever I want. The possibilites are endless! Mwahaha...**

**Crap right, I already know exactly where this is going and what's going to happen. **

**Hey look, it was actually glee fanfiction there for a while, right? Kurt and Blaine were there. They're from Glee. Yup. **


	18. Friends With Better Benefits

**Friends With Better Benefits**

Marcel squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, telling himself it would be over soon. He just needed to be patient.

There was a distinct crunching sound from somewhere in his back, and he grimaced.

His chest was seizing and his head pounded as his lungs protested against the lack of air. This had gone on long enough. He needed to breathe, _now. _

"Shane—choking—eck." Marcel managed to wheeze. He gasped loudly as his friend Shane finally released him from his back-breaking embrace, and put him back down on the floor. Marcel doubled over, sucking in large amounts of air as black dots swam in front of his eyes.

"You okay, Mars?" Michael asked, tentatively putting a hand on his back.

Marcel nodded, resting with his hands on his knees. "Fine. Just need—minute."

"Shit I'm sorry," Shane said, as Marcel straightened back up. "I'm just so happy to see you, you know. I mean, I can't even believe it," He said, putting his hands on Marcel's arm and lifting him up again. He kissed him on the lips, and then set him back down, grinning giddily. Marcel braced himself as Shane went in to hug him again, but before he could Michael stepped in front of him.

"Shane, hey it's great to finally meet you!" He said, sticking his hand out for Shane to shake. "Mars' told me all about you."

Shane looked surprised. "Really?" He looked at Marcel and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Marcel shook his head. He _had_ told Michael a lot about his friends over the past few days, but he'd left out the part about drunkenly losing his virginity to Shane. Shane nodded.

"How come you didn't bring Nate or Kyle with you?" Marcel asked, pulling Michael to his side and sticking an arm around his waist, to deter Shane from picking him up again. "I miss them too...are they coming to see me soon?"

"Yeah, you could say that." Shane said, grinning at him.

Marcel raised an eyebrow. "What's that mean?"

"It _means _that they're on their way right now, and they've got Patty and Eddie with them."

Marcel clasped his hands excitedly. "Really?" He asked. "Everyone's coming?" Shane nodded, and Marcel clapped happily. "Oh my god, I'm so excited!" He turned around and grabbed Michael's hands. "You'll like Nate and Kyle, I promise." He said. "Nate hates everything, and Kyle kind of looks like Justin from _Queer as Folk._"

"Why would that make me like him?" Michael asked.

Marcel rolled his eyes. "Please, you're like in love with Justin."

"I am not!" Michael protested.

"Then why do you get so emotional whenever we watch it?"

"I don't get emotional," Michael muttered. "I just...Brian just treats him really shitty, okay, and he deserves a lot better!"

"Hey, Brian _loves _Justin, alright." Shane cut in. "He—"

Marcel shook his head, putting his hand on Shane's arm. "We're only on the first season," He explained.

"_Ooh." _Shane said. "Never mind."

"Marcel," Sheila said, coming over to where they were standing. "You've got more people here to see you. They look really happy, should I tell them to leave?"

Marcel laughed. "No, no let them in!"

Sheila gave a pained sigh, then went over to the door and pressed the button to buzz them in. It was a stampede of gays as Pat, Kyle and Nate all rushed through the door at the same time. Eddie slumped in behind them, dragging two shopping bags that were practically the size of him.

Nate let out a shrill cry when he saw Marcel and threw his arms over his shoulders. Nate's arms were considerably skinnier then Shane's, and the hug was much more bearable. Kyle and Pat joined the hug, both already sobbing and crying about how much they'd missed him.

Eddie just looked at them and shook his head. "Pat, come on we did this last week." He said, crossing his arms over his black-and-grey checked hoodie. "Man up, for christ sake."

Pat pulled away from the group hug and glared at Eddie. "I'm sorry, did the boy wearing three pounds of eye-liner just tell _me _to man up?"

Michael laughed, but stopped and looked away innocently when Eddie shot him a murderous look.

"Come on, let's show him the stuff." Shane said, poking Pat on the shoulder.

"What stuff?" Marcel asked, peering over Nate's shoulder. Neither he nor Kyle had let go.

"We-ell," Pat said, picking up one of the bags Eddie had brought in. "After our visit, I talked to everyone about what you said—"

"What I said about what?"

"About how our friendship was nothing but a pack of lies!" Nate cried, releasing him from the hug and then grabbing him by his shoulders.

"And how you didn't really like anything you said you liked," Kyle added. "Is that true?"

Marcel opened his mouth to respond, but he was grabbed back into Nate's arms. "Of course it's true!" Nate whined. "Listen to his voice! Listen!"

"Calm down, love." Kyle said, patting Nate on the shoulder. "You sound crazy."

"Your voice _has _changed." Eddie said, raising his eyebrows pointedly. "It's deeper now. Did you lie about _everything?_"

Marcel bit his lip, and looked at his friends. Pat and Nate were giving him identical wide-eyed-tragically-hurt looks, and Shane and Kyle looked disappointed. Eddie looked slightly more upset then usual.

Marcel felt Michael step up next to him, and he poked Marcel in the side. "Come on," He whispered in his ear. "Defend yourself!"

Marcel swallowed. "I—I was scared," He said, looking at the ground. "I'd been alone for so long, and I wanted to be your friend so badly...I was just worried you wouldn't like me if I was different. I thought acting like you guys and liking the same things and making my voice higher was the way I was supposed to be. I'm sorry...but our friendship wasn't a lie," He said to Nate. "I love you guys, truly."

Nate sniffed. "We love you _too, _baby. We just wish you'd been honest."

Marcel felt his lip quiver and he practically threw himself at Nate, pressing his face against his chest. "I'll never lie again I promise!" He said, his words smothered by the fabric of Nate's shirt.

Nate sighed and wrapped his arms around him. "Ok, I fold. He stills owns me, I can't be mad."

Marcel smiled, and he heard Eddie snort. He ignored him.

"Uh, Mars?" Michael said, gently tapping on his shoulder. "You should see what they got you."

"Oh?" Marcel said, letting go of Nate and turning around. Pat was holding up a small red and blue checked shirt. He had two others like it draped over his arms. Marcel raised his eyebrows. "Are those—"

"Flannel!" Pat squealed, skipping over to Marcel and shoving the shirts into his arms. "We got a _bunch _of flannel, and some hoodies, and one pair of sweatpants 'cause it was all we could bring ourselves to touch—" Pat said, ticking things off his finger as he said them. "And we got you a bunch of boot-cut jeans and cotton t-shirts from Old Navy!"

Marcel tightened his arms over the bundle of shirts in his arms, feeling the softness fabric against his skin and utterly helpless to stop the tears well up in his eyes. "Y-you guys went to Old Navy for me?" He asked, his voice cracking.

Nate draped an arm over his shoulder. "And we _hate _it," Nate said, nodding. "But since Pat and Eddie said this is the kind of clothes you'd really like—it is, right?"

Marcel nodded, too overcome to speak. Michael had just pulled out a soft looking grey t-shirt from the bag, with a picture of a sushi roll on it. The caption read _that's how I roll. _"Heh," Michael said. "Funny."

"I picked these one's out," Eddie said, going into the bag and bringing up one long sleeve black, grey and white plaid shirt, and another short sleeved that was black and red checked. "I thought they'd remind you of me. "

Marcel sniffed, and took the shirts into his arms. They were flannel.

"Well," Kyle said, giving him a tentative smile. "What do you think?"

Marcel looked from his friends to the bundle of shirts in his arms, and back again. "Do you guys promise not to judge me for what I'm about to do?" He asked quietly.

"Sure," Shane said.

Kyle raised his eyebrows. "What are gonna do?"

Marcel glanced at Michael, who had an amused smirk on his face, as though he knew exactly where this was headed. Marcel smiled, and then scrunched his face up as he let out an excited squeal, burying his face in the clothes and jumping up and down excitedly. "Flanel flanel flanel flanel!" He cried, throwing the clothes up the air and wanting to sing at how nice they felt when they fell against his face.

Nate tilted his head to the side. "I'm torn between thinking this is adorable, and being horrified that he's wrinkling the clothes." He said, as Marcel proceeded to drop to his knees to gather up the shirts from the floor, and bury his face in them once more.

"It's adorable," Kyle said, sitting down near Marcel and pulling one of the bags over.

"Show me more, show me more!" Marcel urged, settling back on his heels.

The rest of his friends settled around him, taking out the rest of the clothes and showing them to him. Marcel clapped his hands in approval, unable to remember a time he'd gotten so excited about _clothes. _But he was excited, and it was nice. He finally had things he actually liked, shirts that were cool and jeans that he wouldn't have to wrestle himself into each morning. And _flannel. So much flannel. _He was in heaven. Flannel Heaven.

"Hey, I have to go to therapy," Michael said, crouching down next to him. "Kiss goodbye?"

Marcel nodded, and leaned in for a soft kiss on the lips. Michael smiled and licked his lips, then straightened up to leave.

Marcel's friends watched Michael's retreating figure, and Marcel held his breath as he disappeared from sight. He braced himself for what he knew was coming.

The second he was gone, his friends pounced.

"You, Michael. Details, _now._" Pat demanded.

Marcel shrugged, and looked away, smiling sheepishly. "What kind of details?"

"Lord, _any _details, Marcel! I mean we know literally _nothing. _Give us _anything._" Nate whined.

"Start with how long you've been dating, exactly." Kyle said.

Shane scoffed. "Who cares about _that?_ How far have you gone?" He asked, raising his eyebrows. "Frottage, fingering, oral, anal—?"

"Shane!" Marcel cried, giving him an outraged look.

"What about rimming?" Shane pressed. "Because he looks like he'd be up for that."

"No! No rimming!" Marcel hissed. Pat and Kyle snickered. "He doesn't even know what it is."

Shane frowned. "Is he at least going down on you? Because Marcel, if he's not going down on you, you gotta move on. It's not worth it."

Pat put a hand on Marcel's knee, "Let me handle this," He said. He leaned over and smacked Shane over the back of his head. "Bad pervert!"

Nate smiled approvingly.

"Ow!" Shane cried, jerking away from Pat. "What the hell!"

"Marcel and Michael's relationship isn't about that stuff," Pat scolded. "It's about how perfect they are for each other, and they want to take things slow! Stop being gross." Pat looked at Marcel for approval. "Did I get that right?"

"Basically..." Marcel said slowly. They didn't need to know that the wanting to take things slow was almost entirely on Micheal's side. "Also, we're in a hospital where someone is checking on us every 25 minutes so..."

Shane scoffed. "25 minutes is _more _than enough."

"Ignore Shane," Kyle said. "Tell us how you first met." The others nodded enthusiastically at this—besides Shane, who was still rubbing the back of his head and looking sourly at Pat, and Eddie who was...well, Eddie.

"Well, we were both in this mental institution together—" Marcel began in a mocking tone.

Nate jabbed him in the side. "Stop sucking so much, you know what Kyle means." He chided.

Marcel gave them a cheeky grin. "Alright, fine." He said. "We met on my second day here. It was night time, and I was trying to look for a book to read and he picked one out for me. We talked the next day too, just about books or whatever...we really started hanging out after I had a massive panic attack, and he took him into his room and calmed me down. Put his arms around me and held me close..." He smiled at the memory. "It was nice."

"Yeah, panic attacks are awesome." Eddie muttered.

Pat shot him a look. "Hush, Edwin." He said, then turned back to Marcel. "Do you guys cuddle a lot?"

Marcel rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding? 'A lot' is putting it mildly." He said. "It's like our main occupation."

Marcel smiled, as he friends let out a collective _"Awww!"_

* * *

><p>Pat, Shane, Eddie and Nate had to leave after an hour, leaving Kyle behind for a little while longer. Marcel had showed him to his room, and they'd caught up while working on putting away Marcel's new clothes.<p>

He'd kept expecting Michael to knock on the door after he'd finished his therapy, but he'd never showed up. When it had been time for Kyle to leave, Marcel had found Michael at his usual spot on the couch.

Marcel wasn't sure why it bothered him so much. He'd planned to ask Michael about it, but didn't immediately get a chance as shortly after Kyle left he tried on one of his new flannel shirts, and then proceeded to have some sort of excited fit.

It had been going on for an hour now, and he was just beginning to wind down.

"I'm going to write a poem," Marcel told Michael's chest, tapping it with his finger as he lay on top of him. "And it's going to be called 'Flannel flannel flannelly flannel-flannel—'"

"—And it'll be about a walrus." Michael cut in.

"Of course," Marcel agreed. "What else would a poem with that name be about?"

"Not a clue."

Marcel grinned, snuggling his face against Michael's chest. "But it will be a flannel walrus."

"The best kind," Michael observed.

"Okay, here's my poem; Yay flannel-flannel/ I love flannelly flannel/Flannel-flannel yay." He grinned again and looked up at Michael. "It's a Haiku."

Michael chuckled. "You forgot the part about the walrus," He said.

Marcel shrugged. "It's a work in progress."

Michael brushed a few strands of hair of Marcel's face, looking at him fondly. "Mars, you gotta stop, okay? I'm pretty sure this level of adorable is illegal in some places. They're gonna come after you with torches."

Marcel shrugged and bit his lip, lying back down on Michael's chest. "Sorry, I just love my new clothes very very much," He said. "Come on, hug me. Feel how soft I am. I am _so soft._"

"I am hugging you," Michael pointed out.

"Well hug me harder then!"

Michael complied, squeezing his arms tighter around his boyfriend. "You are indeed very soft," He said.

Suddenly, Marcel sat up, and moved into Michael's lap. He grabbed his hands. "How come you didn't come back to my room after you got out of therapy?" He asked.

Michael raised his eyebrows, confused at the sudden change in topics. "Huh?"

"After you got out of therapy, you didn't come hang out with me and Kyle." He repeated. "How come?"

"Oh...I dunno, when I got back to the main room you were gone, and Casey told me most of your friends had left, except the blond one, and you guys had gone back to your room. I figured you'd want some time alone with your friend, so I just watched TV." Michael said, shrugging.

"But...but didn't you think maybe I shouldn't be alone with him?" Marcel asked.

"No...why would I?"

"Because, I mean, you know I have a history with Kyle—with all my friends—and you know the way I am and stuff...I told you about kissing Eddie." Marcel said, looking at Michael from under his lashes.

Michael's eyebrows raised again. "Mars, I'm your boyfriend, not your warden." He said. "You don't need me monitoring your every move."

"I know," Marcel mumbled. "But you could be a _little _protective..."

Michael furrowed his brow. "What?"

Marcel shrugged, looking down. "When Kurt was here, Blaine was so against us being alone together. Even Finn was getting protective over him..."

Marcel looked up, and saw a distressed look on Michael's face. His stomach knotted. He shouldn't have said anything. "Marcel, is that really what you think? That I don't feel protective?" Michael asked, his voice quiet.

Marcel shrugged again, and Michael grabbed his hands back, looking him in the eye. "Marcel, please," Michael said, holding his hands firmly. "Believe me when I say I feel _very _protective over you. I mean, there are times when you're lying in my arms and I swear all I want to do is hold onto you _so tight _and make sure that you never, ever leave them again because I know that when you're in my arms, you're safe. Nothing bad can happen while I'm holding you— to you or me." Marcel held his breath as he listened, finding himself caught up in Michael's dark blue eyes. "But then...then you move, and try and get up and go somewhere else and I know I have to let you go." Michael said quietly. "And maybe you won't be safe where you go, I don't know...but I do know that no matter what happens, you'll come back to me and I can put my arms around you and then...it'll be alright again."

Marcel felt like he was about to choke, and without a second of thought, a stream of words tumbled from his lips. "MichaelIloveyou."

Michael blinked. "W...what did you say?"

"I said I love you," Marcel said, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. Or maybe it was in his head now, because he could hear the loud pounding noises in his ears, making his head feel as though it were on the brink of collapse. "And—and it's really really scary and I feel sort of sick like I'm about to puke all over the place but I know it's true and—well I mean I _think _it's true I mean, I don't know really know what love feels like but I think—"

"Well how'd'you feel right now?" Michael asked, his words rushing out in a slurred manner.

"Nauseous." Marcel said. "Really really nauseous. But—but excited. And scared. And did I mention nauseous?"

"Sounds right to me," Michael said, a wide smile on his face.

Marcel nodded, and then sprung forward and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend. "Iloveyou Iloveyou Iloveyou," He whispered, burying his face into the crook of Michael's neck. He was crying, but it was in a happy sort of way. He loved someone. He loved _Michael. _

Michael wrapped his arms around Marcel, unable to shake the slightly dreamy, unreal feeling from his bones. But it was real, and he was so damn grateful because nothing he could ever see on TV or read in any book would ever compare to the way real life was at that moment. "I love you too, Mars." He whispered, clinging as tightly as he could to the boy in his arms. Nothing else would ever compare to how it felt to finally have Marcel clinging back to him, just as hard.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: In case anyone is wondering, here's what Marcel's friends think about his relationship;**

**Pat fully supports it, and thinks Marcel and Michael are obviously soul mates and are completely perfect together. If any of the others ever said anything that implied they didn't agree with that opinion, he would be prepared with a 10 minute speech about why they are _wrong. _If Marcel and Michael were a fandom pairing, they would be his OTP. He would write fanfiction and squee over them.**

**Eddie hates Michael, a lot. He hates the way he dresses and the way he looks. He doesn't think Michael could ever understand or support Marcel the way he does, and he is vehemently against their relationship. However, even through all his bitterness he can't deny how happy Marcel seems to look around Michael, so he doesn't say anything. Instead, he just goes home and writes a lot of unrequited, angsty poems (they aren't very good, but I applaud his maturity).**

**Shane doesn't see the point of relationships in general, but he's happy for his friend. Although he's beginning to realize that Marcel being in a relationship means he can't just sleep with him whenever he wants like he used to, and he isn't crazy about that. At some point he's going to mention that to Nate, and Nate is going to respond by smacking him over the head and telling him he wouldn't have been able to do that anyways, after what happened to Marcel, and they all need to be very careful about making sure Marcel knows they love him for reasons _other _then his body. Shane is going to then hang his head sadly, because that didn't occur to him. He thought it just went without saying that he loved Marcel for reasons other then his body.**

**Nate is excited that Marcel's found someone he cares about so much/cares about him, but at the same time he's also mind-numbingly jealous. He desperately wants his own Michael, and is currently convinced he'll never find him and will be alone forever.**

**Kyle is torn for being really happy for Marcel, because Michael is pretty hot and obviously loves him a lot, and being worried that Marcel shouldn't really be in a relationship right now. He was in a bad place even before, and then with everything that happened, Kyle can't help but think he should really take some time to be single before throwing himself into something long-term. He'll mention this to Nate and Pat, and they'd agree it seems too fast, but Pat will remind them how happy Marcel obviously is with Michael and how good Michael seems to be for him, and eventually Kyle will agree.**


	19. The Visitor

**The Visitor**

Marcel yawned, and leaned back against the bed's chipped wooden headboard. He'd finished the book he'd been reading, but he was too lazy to get up and get another one.

His laziness had already kept him in bed for the better part of the day, however, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the growing stiffness in his joints. Marcel arched his back, reconsidering. His books were out in the van, and going to get one would afford him the opportunity to leave the dirty motel room he was holed up in for a little while...stretch his legs, get some fresh air...it could be worth it.

The door opened, and Ace wandered in, staring at the map Marcel had finally convinced him to buy. His brow was furrowed in a look of obvious frustration, and Marcel couldn't help but smile at him. He settled back down on the bed, deciding against getting a book; he was fine right where he was.

"Stupid fucking piece of shit map," Ace muttered, traipsing over to the bed and maneuvering himself between Marcel's leg. Ace leaned back against him, and Marcel wrapped his arms over his shoulders. "I can't read this fucking thing."

Marcel peered at the map over Ace's shoulder. He tried to hold back a smile. "It's upside down," he said, his lips turning up at the corners in spite of himself.

Marcel felt Ace's shoulders tense, and his fingers curled slightly, causing the map to crumple. "Fucking shit," He said, gritting his teeth. Marcel placed a small kiss on his cheek as Ace turned the map around, and straightened it out again. He studied it for a moment. "No, that wasn't it. Still makes no sense."

Marcel ran his hands over Ace's shoulders. "Why don't you put the map away for now, hmm?" He asked, kissing along Ace's neck. "We'll look at it again later."

Ace sighed, and tilted his head back, letting it rest against Marcel's shoulder. "I promised things would be better for you once I got you out of that institution," Ace said. "Spending a month on the road and bouncing around from shit-hole hotel room to shit-hole hotel room isn't a huge improvement."

Marcel put his hand on Ace's chin, and gently tilted his face towards him. "The only thing that matters is that I'm with the person I love," He whispered. "As long as I have that...it doesn't really matter where I am."

Marcel leaned in, and closed his eyes as he gave Ace a gentle kiss.

He opened his eyes, smiling as he listened to the song being played. "I like this song," he said.

Jack grinned, and put an arm over his shoulders. "Really now? You actually _like _a song?" He asked, pulling Marcel down off the bar stool he'd been sitting on. Marcel nodded, and grinned back at Jack. "Well then, we should dance."

Jack took his hand, and pulled him out to the middle of the club's dance floor. He held him close as they danced, running his hands over Marcel's body and up through his hair. Marcel was acutely aware that almost everyone in the club was staring at them, watching them dance. It was something he'd grown used to after a month with Jack; people couldn't help and stare at someone so good-looking.

"It's not just me they're staring at, you know." Jack said, reading his mind. Marcel had grown used to that too. Jack just seemed to know how everyone's mind worked. "It's you."

Marcel rolled his eyes. "Oh, I'm sure," He said.

Jack cupped Marcel's chin with his thumb and forefinger. "It's true," He said. "You're amazing, and it makes them crazy to see my hands on you instead of theirs," Jack leaned in, and Marcel stood on his toes to let Jack kiss him. "They know it means you're mine, and not theirs." Jack whispered into the kiss.

Marcel looked up at Jack as he swayed in his arms. "I'm yours," He said quietly, smiling to himself. "All yours..."

Marcel turned around, and raised his eyebrows.

Stevie was standing by the stove, which was never a good thing by itself, and he he had a slew of bowls and ingredients out in front of him, which was even worse. Marcel went up behind him slowly, and placed his hands on Stevie's hips. "Um, sweetie," He said carefully, eyeing the bowls of flour and egg whites. "What are you doing?"

"Making breakfast," Stevie replied, pouring sugar into a measuring cup.

Marcel raised his eyebrows further. "And breakfast is...?"

"It's _île flottante," _Stevie said. "It's a french desert consisting of meringue floating on vanilla custard. My grandmother used to make it all the time."

Marcel nodded, not bothering to ask why they were having _dessert _for breakfast. In Stevie's mind, dessert was an acceptable replacement for any meal. "That's nice," He said, pressing his lips against Stevie's bare shoulder—neither of them had bothered to get dressed yet. "Have _you _ever made it before?"

"Nope." He said as he sprinkled a pinch of some white powder onto the egg whites.

"Right," Marcel said. "So I should get out the cereal then?" He said, giving Stevie's hips a squeeze.

"Words can wound, my dear. Words can _wound._"

Marcel grinned, and bit down lightly on Stevie's shoulder. "I'm just teasing. You know the way to my heart is through my stomach."

Stevie snorted. _"Please. _I found the way to your heart, and it was not from your_ stomach." _He reached around and gave Marcel's back side a pinch.

Marcel pushed Stevie's hand away, and wrapped his arms around Stevie's waist. "Well, presumably you'd have to go _through _my stomach to get to my heart from where you were starting from so..."

Stevie paused, and glanced at him over his shoulder. "This analogy started out kind of sexy, but it's just become very creepy now."

Marcel grinned. "That describes _so _many one night stands I've had..."

Stevie's hand lingered over the spoon he'd been about to grab, and he stopped and let his hand rest against the counter. He turned slightly, again looking at Marcel over his shoulder. "I guess it's a good thing we're both done with those then." He said quietly, surprising Marcel with a rare of moment of complete seriousness. Marcel nodded, and reached up to kiss him. Stevie's lips tasted slightly like sugar, and Marcel let his eyelids drop as they kissed.

"Yeah," He whispered. "Good thing."

Marcel sighed, and opened his eyes. He rubbed them tiredly, and tried to focus on the book he was reading, but the warmth of the fireplace and comfort of lying in Howie's arms was making him sleepy. Howie looked down at him, and put a large hand on the book, tugging at it lightly. "No no," Marcel attempted to insist, taking the book back. "I want to read, I do..." He mumbled. He smiled up at Howie. "I'm just really comfortable."

Howie gave him a shy smile, and leaned down to place a soft kiss against Marcel's eye lid.

Marcel put his hand on the back of Howie's head, pulling him down further so he could kiss his lips. "Alright," He mumbled against Howie's lips. "I'll take a break...short one..."

As they continued to kiss, Howie pulled the book from his hands, dog earing the page he was on and setting it down on the coffee table in front of them. Howie pulled back and gave him a warm look, and Marcel smiled up at the larger man, brushing a thumb affectionately over Howie's cheek. That was the the thing about being with Howie, neither of them ever had to _say _it. They could look at each other, and they just knew.

Marcel took his hand back from Howie's face, and snuggled in closer to his chest. He closed his eyes, and let himself drift off to sleep, safe in the arms of the man who loved him, and whom he loved as well.

_...I love you..._

Marcel sprang up in his bed, breathing heavily and shaking. He swiped at his face, wiping away the sweat that covered his forehead, and trying to get a handle on himself. He looked around the room he was in, his heart skipping a beat when he saw it was the same one he'd gone to sleep in, the powder blue room in the psychiatric ward, with a lock on the door and dresser full of new flannel clothes.

He sighed.

_It was a dream, just another dream. _

Marcel leaned forward, letting his head fall into his lap. He'd been having dreams about all of them—save Club and Lloyd, who'd never gotten as close to—for a week now and he still couldn't figure out why.

It wasn't that dreaming about them was so strange, in fact he'd gotten to a point where it was typical...but his dreams had never been like this before. The dreams he was used to were flashbacks to the day they'd left him, or perverted twists on the things they'd made him do that left him shaking and crying upon awakening. They were bloody, carnal head trips that made him sweat and writhe in his sleep only to wake up alone, gasping and unsatisfied. Those were the dreams he'd grown used to, and come to expect each night when his head hit the pillow.

Nothing like this. Nothing like these sweet, wholesome almost _domestic _little dreams. Pictures of what his life would be like if one of them came to take him away from here...

Marcel wasn't sure which was the most worrisome part; the way Michael didn't seem to have ever existed in these dreams, or they way he woke up filled with fear, confusion...and longing.

* * *

><p>Marcel groaned, and buried his head under the pillow, attempting to block out the frantic knocking that was coming from his door. It had taken him what felt like hours to fall back asleep, and he wasn't ready to be awake again.<p>

The knocking persisted, and Marcel groped blindly for the book that was on the desk by his bed. Once he'd found it, he flung the book in the direction of his door. "I hate you!" He shouted, his yell muffled by the pillow over his face.

"Come on, Mars, open up!" Michael whined through the door, his knocking growing louder. "He's gonna _be _here soon and I need someone to tell me calm the fuck down!"

"Urrg..." Marcel moaned, resigning himself to consciousness and pulling himself off the bed. He rubbed his eyes and made his way stiffly to his door, pulled it open and glared at his boyfriend.

Michael gave him a wide eyed look in return, and Marcel sighed and stepped back from the door frame, letting him in. Michael stepped in, looking expectant, and Marcel sighed. "Calm the fuck down," He said dutifully.

Michael shook his head. "Can't do that," He said, beginning to pace as Marcel closed the door behind him. "Calm was never an option. Only pain and panic." *

Marcel pinched his eyes. "Note to self, boyfriend unconsciously makes movie references when upset."

Michael stopped pacing and grabbed Marcel by the shoulders, shaking him a little. "When he gets here, I'm gonna hide behind you, okay?" He said, his eyes dangerously wide. For a moment, Marcel wasn't sure whether or not he was being serious. "And then you get rid of him. Tell him I moved. Tell him I joined the army. Tell him I moved to France, and joined the _French_ army."

Marcel pursed his lips, and put his hand against Michael's face. "You can't see any problems with that plan, Mi?" He looked down and up again, gesturing to their size difference.

Michael paused, and his face fell. "You're right, that won't work." He said, letting go of Marcel's shoulders and taking a seat on his bed. "He knows I can't speak french."

Marcel sat down next to Michael, and put his arm over his shoulders. "It's a good thing that even when you lose your mind, you manage to keep your sense of humour." He said, placing a soft kiss against Michael's cheek.

Michael snorted. "Yeah, good thing." He muttered.

Something cold slid into Marcel's gut. ..._Good thing..._

He shook his head, and tried to force himself to concentrate on Michael. "Michael, just because your Dad reacted a certain way doesn't mean the rest of your family members will. Your mother and your grandmother took it fine, didn't they? Maybe your brother will too."

Michael shook his head. "Not a chance. He's my Dad's perfect son, they probably agree about everything."

"What makes you say that?" Marcel asked, fidgeting with the tie on his sweatpants. He looped it around his pinky finger, pulling it tight and nodding along as Michael spoke.

"Because I _lived _with them for 16 fucking years and I never saw them disagree about anything." Michael crossed his arms and glowered. "They play _sports _together."

Marcel raised an eyebrow. "So...?" He mumbled, transfixed with the dark purple colour the tip of his pinky was turning.

Michael set his jaw. "So nothing. What do I care about sports? Nothing. They can both go fuck themselves for all I care."

Marcel nodded, and looked up at his boyfriend. "This whole sports thing is a lot more important to you than you've been letting on, isn't it?" He asked, pulling the string off his pinky to give Michael his full attention.

"_No," _Michael grumbled. He glanced at Marcel out of the corner of his eye, and then hung his head. "I can't even catch a _ball, _Mars." He whined. Marcel gave him a sympathetic look, and rested his head against Michael's. "And if I did I wouldn't know what to do with it."

Marcel licked his lips, and reached forward for Michael's hand. "I can help you with that, if you want." He said, pressing a hard kiss against Michael's lips. He leaned himself against Michael, pushing him back on the bed. Temporarily distracted, Michael slid his hands along Marcel's hips and allowed himself to be kissed down against the mattress.

"Mmph...Mars," Michael murmured. Marcel sighed, hearing the familiar reservations in Michael's voice.

"No," He said firmly, grabbing Michael's wrists and pinning them up above his head. Michael looked surprised. "Michael, look—what I'm about to say is for your own good, and I say it as lovingly and sweetly as it can _possibly _be said, alright?" Michael nodded. "Good. I need you to shut up." Michael furrowed his brow at him, pouting. "I said it with love, don't look at me like that." He opened his mouth to speak, but Marcel pointed a finger at him. "No, shut up." He commanded, and then put his hand back on Michael's wrist. "You once told me I can't control the things that _might _happen, only the things that do. Well until your brother gets here _calm down. _Alright? We _don't _know what's going to happen in the future, or where we'll be in a week or a month... but you're here with me right now and you can spend it worrying about what might happen today, or you can just _be _with me." He said quietly. "Just... just kiss me."

Michael nodded, and Marcel leaned in to kiss him, but Michael stopped him. "Wait," He mumbled. Marcel gave him a look, and Michael grinned guiltily. "I just...I want to try..." Michael put his hands on Marcel's hips, and turned them both over slowly so that he was lying on top. He propped himself up on his hands, and surveyed Marcel's face. "Is this alright?"

Instead of answering, Marcel wrapped his arms over Michael's neck and reached up to kiss him. As they kissed, he tightened his arms, pulling Michael closer and closer and holding him as tightly as he could. Michael slipped his arms under Marcel's back, his fingers lifting up the edge of his shirt and brushing along the soft skin of his lower back.

Michael's mouth seared against his own, and Marcel grabbed at Michael's shirt, desperate to pull him closer. He had the terrifying idea that if he didn't cling to him, Michael was going to slip away, and along with him, all his promises of safety of and love. It would all slip away, and he would wake to find that the real dream had been Michael, and the reality he lived in was Ace or Stevie or Jack. He would wake and find Michael had never existed, and he had never loved him.

"Mars, Mars—" Michael whispered, running his hands over Marcel's shoulders. Marcel cut him off with more starved kisses. They couldn't stop, he needed him. Needed him here, holding him and kissing him and loving him. He didn't want him to be gone, couldn't take it. "Mars, it's okay—" Michael gasped, managing to turn his face away from Marcel's fervent mouth. Marcel shut his eyes tightly, terrified of the absence he felt. "Mars...why are you crying?"

He could feel Michael's fingers brushing over his cheeks, and he turned away. "Please don't leave me, please..." He sobbed.

"I'm not going anywhere—"

"You promised you'd protect me, that you wouldn't let anything hurt me!" Marcel raked his fingers over Michael's back, terrified that at any moment there would be nothing under his hands. "You have to stay and keep that p-promise you _have _too—"

"Mars—open your eyes!" Michael shook him a little, holding tightly onto his shoulders. "Please, Mars, open your eyes," He said softly.

Marcel's eyelids seemed to open on their own, coaxed apart by the sound of Michael's voice. Michael was looking down at him with the usual worry and concern, desperate to reassure him and calm him down.

Marcel sniffed, and Michael brushed a piece of hair off his forehead. "I'm not going anywhere," Michael repeated sincerely.

Marcel wiped his eyes, suddenly feeling childish. "I'm sorry," He mumbled, shaking his head. "I don't know what happened. I'm just stupid..."

Michael shook his head, and lay down next to him, holding him tight. "You're _not _stupid," He said, resting his head on the pillow next to Marcel's. "Sometimes feelings are overwhelming, I get that. It's alright."

Marcel moved closer, pressing himself flush against Michael's chest. "I didn't get much sleep last night," He said quietly. "I had bad dreams again."

"Me too," Michael mumbled, pressing his lips against Marcel's temple. "I dreamed my Dad came and set the building on fire, and all we had to put it out was the lumpy Oatmeal they serve for breakfast."

Marcel laughed. "You did not,"

"I did too!" Michael insisted. "And Paige just kept screaming 'no don't, I like the lumpy Oatmeal! It's a great source of fibre!'"

They both lifted their heads up as they heard the door open, and Marcel clutched Michael closer to him. Whoever was at the door wanted to take Michael away, he was suddenly sure.

Robbie smiled at them, obviously mistaking the cuddling for cute instead of vitally necessary. "Marcel, checks." He said. "Michael, your brother's here, and he's waiting in the main room."

Michael looked alarmed. "What? Don't you need to wait for my permission before you can let him in?"

Marcel rubbed his shoulder soothingly.

Robbie shrugged. "I think he sweet-talked Casey into forgetting that rule."

Michael scowled, and turned to Marcel. "You don't need to come out with me, you know. I mean if you're tired and stuff...you don't need my stress on top of it."

Marcel shook his head, and they both sat up. "I'll be more stressed away from you," He said. "Besides, you need backup."

Michael nodded. "That's a good point..."

They both climbed down off the bed, and headed out of the door, held open by Robbie. "You know, I sure hope no incredibly charming and attractive psychopathic killers try to break in here," Michael said. "Because apparently it would be easy."

* * *

><p>Marcel clung to Michael's arm as they walked down the hall, but he let go just as they entered the main room. Michael raised an eyebrow and him, and Marcel shrugged. "Better to ease him into it," He said quietly.<p>

"You sure?" Michael asked. Marcel nodded. "Alright."

A good part of him wanted to say "screw that" and put his arm back over Marcel's shoulders, but the truth was he just didn't have the guts. He and his brother had never been close growing up, but he was still his brother and Michael didn't want to be rejected by him, too. He just didn't.

Despite that, Michael still couldn't help grimacing a little when he saw Mitch out in the main room. Growing up, people had always said they looked a like, and he guessed he saw it—not that he'd ever admit it out loud—but the looks just seemed to work better for Mitch. He was taller, by at least two feet, and he was considerably more muscular. Instead of dull and dark, Mitch's blue eyes were clear and bright. His hair—the exact same colour of brown as Michael's—was neat and styled. Michael guessed he'd probably brushed it with something other than his fingers. Michael automatically raised his hand to his own hair, flattening it self-consciously and wondering if maybe he should start doing the same.

"So then, after all that we ended up having to take the piano back a _third _time, just to give her back the stupid cat!" Mitch was telling Casey, who was giggling and twirling a piece of red hair around her finger as she listened. "I swear, it was crazy—"

Casey giggled again, and Michael cleared his throat, unwilling to watch any more. Mitch looked up, and the charismatic smile on his face faltered for a moment. "Mike!" He exclaimed. "Wow, uh hey."

"I'll leave you boys alone," Casey said, excusing herself politely. She smiled at Mitch. "Don't hesitate to ask if you need something."

Mitch grinned as Casey walked away, and Michael scowled. Why couldn't it have been _Sheila _who'd answered the door?

Mitch turned back, and raised his eyebrows when he noticed Marcel standing by Michael's elbow. Michael figured he should introduce them. "Mitch, this is Marcel," he mumbled. "Marcel, my brother Mitch."

Marcel nodded, and Mitch nodded back. "You must be 'the boy.'" He commented, then cringed slightly.

Marcel looked confused. "Huh?"

Mitch ran his fingers through his hair. "Uh, s'what my Dad keeps calling you—" He muttered, looking at the ground. Mitch looked back up again, and strange expression on his face. "Look it's nice to meet you and stuff," He said. "But do you think you could give us a minute alone?"

"Why?" Michael asked. "I want him to stay."

Mitch sighed. "It'll _just _be a minute, I promise."

"It's fine, Michael," Marcel said quietly. "Just... just don't go too far away, okay?"

Michael nodded. "We'll just go sit at that table other there," He said, pointing to a table not far to their left. "You go sit with Paige by the TV. You'll be able to see us."

"Okay," Marcel said, looking over at the TV area. He gave Michael's hand a squeeze, and offered Mitch a tentative smile before shuffling over to the couch, where Paige greeted him with her usual enthusiasm.

"Come on," Michael said, jerking his head towards the table. He and Mitch sat down across from each other, and Michael gave Mitch an expectant look.

"So, is he always like that?" Mitch asked, glancing over his shoulder at Marcel.

Michael clenched his jaw. "Like _what?_"

Mitch shrugged. "Clingy... needing to be near you or whatever..."

Michael thought about that for a moment, and then squared his shoulders. "Let's get something straight," He said, pointing a finger at his brother. "You don't know him. You don't know a single thing about him, or his life or what he's been through. So you are _not _going to judge him, or anything he says or does. Ever. Get it?"

Mitch held up his hands innocently. "Got it."

"Good." Michael said. "Now what'd you wanna talk about?"

"Well...uh, I just..." Mitch began, looking uncomfortable. He sighed, and pinched his eyes. "Alright, so in college," He began again, this time sounding more confident. "I had a lot of friends who, uh...they sort of um, experimented...I guess. With their sexuality, I mean."

Michael raised his eyebrows, and sat back in his chair.

"Like, they would date people who were the same, you know, sex or whatever...maybe fool around... but eventually they decided 'alright, that's cool and all but I'm straight.' Which is totally fine and everything, of course—"

"What's your _point, _Mitch?" Michael interrupted.

Mitch sighed again, and leaned in. "Look, things are pretty messed up at home right now." He said in a low voice. "Mom and Dad are barely talking, Bubby came over the other day and spent an hour yelling at Dad in Yiddish—"

"Bubby speaks Yiddish?" Michael asked. "I thought she just knew a few swear words..."

Mitch shrugged. "Apparently she knows the whole language. And a lot more curse words than she was letting on." Mitch grinned for a moment. "Anyways, Dad's a mess, Mom's fed up with him, and they're both looking at me to pick a side. And before I do, I just wanted to ask if you were... if you were _sure._"

Michael furrowed his brow. "Sure about what?"

"About... you know, _you. _And _him..._" He said, gesturing to Marcel, who was watching them from the couch. Marcel turned around quickly when he noticed them looking, and Michael smiled. "Because if you're not _sure, _and this is just like a phase you're gonna grow out of—"

"I'm sure," Michael said.

Mitch looked surprised. "Yeah? You don't wanna think about it or—"

"No, I don't need to. I'm sure. 100%. And it's not gonna go away."

Mitch nodded slowly. "Alrighty... that's good I guess... that you're sure..." Mitch ran his fingers through his hair. "So I guess... I guess I got your back, bro."

"What?" Michael asked, taken aback.

"I got your back," He repeated. "I dunno if that'll make any difference to the old man—I doubt it, he's pretty set about things—but I'll try and talk to him. Tell him it's just who you are, and if he loves you he's just gonna have to accept that."

Michael blinked a few times, his head swimming. "You—I mean, you don't care? You're okay with it?"

Mitch shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, it's kind of a surprise, but I'm cool with it. Look at it this way, now we'll never have to worry about fighting over the same girl or something, right? Not that you'd of had a chance, of course." Mitch gave him a cocky grin, but Michael felt too stunned to make a retort. He hadn't expected this... not at all.

"I... I thought you wouldn't want to be my brother any more," He said quietly, looking at his hands. "I thought you'd hate me."

"Hate you?" Mitch repeated. "For this? Are you kidding? Mike, if I was gonna hate you for something, it would be all those times you started fights with guys 10 times your size and I got my ass kicked trying to break it up. I mean, if I can get over _that, _this is nothing. Hell, this is a good thing—if there's anyone on the planet that needs to get laid, it's definitely you."

Michael smiled. "Thank you, Mitch." He said quietly. He wanted to say more... wanted to go over and hug him, and apologize for being such a shitty little brother all those years...wanted to let him know that when he said thank you he meant it from the bottom of his heart, because he'd been so worried his big brother was going to call him a freak and reject him, just like his Dad had. But he hadn't done that, and Michael wished he could tell him how much that meant to him. But... that just wasn't him. Maybe he could be like that with Marcel, open and unafraid to spew his feelings, no matter how sappy and pathetic they were... but not with Mitch. So instead he said; "But you know, if you hadn't butted in, I woulda won those fights."

Mitch grinned and shook his head. "_Sure_ you would've," He said. Mitch rolled his eyes, still shaking his head. "Come on, reintroduce me to your boyfriend. I promise not to embarrass you too much."

* * *

><p>Marcel ran his fingers along the couches arm, ruminating for the first time about what he thought must have been the couches very sad existence. No one appreciated it, the couch. He and Michael sat on it every single day, and he'd barely ever even noticed it before. It wasn't a thing to be noticed, really. It was one of those things that are just... there. Like air, or your belly button. It's there and you know it's there, but if you found yourself thinking about it, it would strike you as very odd. Before now, if someone had asked him what colour the couch was, he would have been at a loss for an answer.<p>

It was green, the couch. Dark, bottle green in most places, but lighter in a few spots where years of crazy people abusing it had faded away the pigment.

Marcel heard someone say his name, but it wasn't until he found his shoulder being shaken lightly that he realized it meant someone was trying to get his attention. He picked his head up, and looked questioningly at Michael for a moment, before he realized he'd just completely zoned out on him in the middle of a conversation.

"Crap, M'sorry," He said, running his fingers through his hair and cringing. There was a documentary on the Northern Lights playing on television that neither of them had really been watching, and they'd been discussing the meeting with Michael's brother, whom Marcel had been surprised to find wasn't really the ass-hat he'd been expecting. "What were you saying?"

"That they've got ice-cream bars in the kitchen, and I wanted to know if you wanted some." Michael said, sounding amused.

Marcel bit down on his lip. "Weren't we talking about Mitch?"

Michael gave him a pitying smile. "Not for a couple minutes now."

Marcel cringed. "...Right." How long had he been zoned out for? It hadn't felt like more than a minute... He shook his head, reaffirming that it was still in fact attached to his shoulders. For a large portion of the day, he hadn't been sure.

"Well?" Michael asked, poking his temple lightly.

Marcel looked up, disoriented. "Huh?" He said helplessly. Michael gave him a look, and he remembered about the ice-cream. "Oh...uh sure."

Michael grinned, and kissed Marcel on the cheek as he slid him off his lip, and straightened up. Marcel watched him walk away, already regretting his answer. He hadn't put it together that agreeing to the ice-cream would make Michael leave.

Michael disappeared into the kitchen, and just as Marcel was considering getting up and following him into it, Casey appeared by the side of the couch, a strange expression on her face. "You've got a visitor, Marcel," She said, a hint of distaste in her voice.

"Yeah? Who?" He asked, shifting onto his knees.

"He said his name was Alan Smith," Casey said, prompting Marcel to raise his eyebrows a bit—he didn't think he knew anyone with that name. "He wanted me to give you his _card,_"

Casey's voice snapped a bit on the word "card", and Marcel understood why once she'd handed it to him; it wasn't the usual kind of white business card that one generally gives out, but instead a card from a playing deck, with a loopy red design on the back.

Marcel turned the card over, and his mouth went dry. For a very long moment, he thought he felt his heart cease beating in his chest, and the cavity feel strangely light without its movement.

The card he'd been handed was an Ace of hearts.

Marcel looked back up at Casey. "Let him in."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Special thanks to Clovrboy for his help with the beginning, and for suggesting "ice-cream."**

**Sorry about that ending there! I've already got a large portion of the next chapter done so it should be up _soon, _I promise.**

*Calm isn't an option=Peace was never an option, X-men First class.

Pain and Panic= Hades henchmen from Hercules (alliteration!)


	20. Ace of Hearts

**Ace of Hearts**

Marcel's heart slammed against his chest as Casey opened the door, and the blitz of emotions he felt sent his head spinning. Still, it wasn't until he'd actually walked through the door that Marcel really let himself feel any of it...let himself really believe that it was him, he was here.

And when he did see him, everything else he felt—fear, apprehension, unease—all of it disappeared, whited out into the dark recesses of his mind. The only thing left was a sudden, intense surge of happiness.

"_Ace!" _Marcel cried, sprinting across the room and throwing his arms around him. Ace lifted him up and his arms closed around him, and Marcel could have cried from the sheer relief. He wrapped his legs around Ace's waist, clinging to him and giving him a hard, open mouthed kiss.

Ace's hands were on his thighs, holding them tightly as he kissed him back so hard it hurt, but no amount of pain would have ever made him want to stop. Marcel could barely believe this was happening, that Ace was _really _here_, _thatit was really real. He was _here. _

"I can't believe you're here,_" _Marcel gasped aloud, between hot, messy kisses.

Ace nodded. "I missed you so much, Marcey—" He agreed, tightening his grip on Marcel's thighs. He kissed him again, hard and deep, and Marcel moaned.

Ace slowed down, and pulled his mouth away a bit. Marcel whined in protest, but understood why as the rush of his blood quieted down enough for him to hear Casey clearing her throat disapprovingly behind them.

"Marcel, this is _not _proper conduct," Casey said, sounding scarily like Sheila. She had her arms folded across her chest, and a dark glare had overtaken her usually pleasant face.

Marcel realized how this must look to her, him just jumping into the arms of a strange man and sticking his tongue down his throat, but he couldn't help but giggle a little. Casey looked _so disappointed_ in him, and it all seemed so silly with Ace around. Casey, Sheila...the whole stupid institution.

He turned back to Ace, trying to hold in his laughter as their eyes met, and Marcel knew they were both in on the joke. "You should probably put me down," He said. Without a word, Ace dropped him down, flashing him a childish grin. Marcel giggled and wrapped his arms around Ace's middle. "I'm so glad you're here," He whispered.

Ace hugged him close, and pressed a kiss against the top of his head. "Me too," He mumbled.

Casey cleared her throat again, and Marcel wheeled around and glared at her. "Come on," He said to Ace, taking his hand. "We'll talk in here."

He pulled Ace over to one of the private visiting rooms, and shut the door behind them. Ace put a hand on his shoulder, and trailed it down his arm. "I missed you, Marcey." He said.

Marcel paused, and let his hand linger over the door knob. Then he turned around, and landed a loud _slap _across Ace's cheek. "You fucking bastard!"

"Jesus, what the fuck—!" Ace cried, rubbing his cheek and staring at him like he was insane. "The hell I do to deserve that?"

"What did you do?" Marcel asked, breathing heavily as he tried to get a grip on the anger that was suddenly burning through his veins. "What did you _do?_"

Ace raised his eyebrows, and Marcel glared furiously at him for a moment before balling his hands up into fists and smashing them into Ace. _"What did you do? What did you do?" _He should angrily, as Ace held up his arms to defend himself. "How about _tortured me? _And_ humiliated _me? How about left me on the fucking ground with_ a goddamned gun in my hand so I could fucking kill myself!_"

"Hey! Come on! Stop!" Ace shouted, covering his head with his arms. Marcel continued to pound him with his fists, though he wasn't putting nearly as much strength into it as he'd put behind the initial slap. "You're alive, aren't you! You _didn't _kill yourself!"

"I fucking tried, alright!" He shouted, slowing his fists. "But there...there wasn't any bullets in the gun..."

He stopped hitting him finally, and Ace straightened up and looked at him apprehensively, as though he was worried Marcel was only taking a breather, and would resume beating him in a moment. "And you never thought about why that was?" He said, once he'd determined that Marcel was done.

"Of _course _I did," Marcel huffed. "It's practically _all _I've thought about for the last three months. That, and what I was gonna _do _to you if I ever saw your sorry ass again,"

Ace smiled at him, and put his hands on Marcel's shoulders. "I took the bullets out of the gun, baby," He said quietly. "And I talked Jack into leaving before we heard a gunshot...told him there was no way you wouldn't do it if he told you to."

Marcel looked down and his feet, standing together with Ace's. "It's true," He said. "I tried to listen...I kept pulling the stupid trigger over and over..." Ace rubbed his shoulders, and he looked back up at him. "There just wasn't any point in being alive if you guys didn't want me any more."

"Of course I wanted you," Ace said, leaning down and kissing his cheek. "I'll always want you," He moved his head, and kissed his other cheek.

Marcel tilted his head to the side as Ace kissed his mouth, slowly and with a softness that made Marcel's chest ache. "Then why did you leave?" He whispered.

"I had to, Marcey." Ace said. "If we'd left before, Jack would've come after us. We woulda been looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives. But if he thought you were dead, and I'd just skipped out on my own..."

"He wouldn't have gone after you?" Marcel asked.

Ace shook his head. "Not like he would have if I'd had you with me. It would have been like I'd taken something from him... and he would've been pissed. So I left with them... and when I came back, the place was crawling with cops. I had to get out of there..."

Marcel licked his lips. "And then?"

Ace sat back on the table in the middle of the room. "Then you were in every fucking newspaper...on the news..._everywhere..._All about how they'd _finally _found you after months of searching..." Ace's eyes were downcast, and Marcel felt a strange pang in his chest.

"...Did Jack find out?"

Ace scratched his head. "Yeah, yeah he did."

"What'd he do?" Marcel asked nervously.

Ace's eyes flicked up to his own for a moment, and then lowered back down, his voice darkening. and "Nothing, after I led the cops to them."

Marcel's mouth opened a little. _"You _did? _You're _the reason they got caught?_" _

Ace nodded, still avoiding eye contact. "I had to," He said solemnly. "I couldn't have him after us. You don't know him like I do, Marcey. The guys not right."

Marcel snorted. "I know him well enough that I can believe that."

Ace's lips twitched into a small smile, and he pulled Marcel over and kissed him again. Marcel closed his eyes, his fingers grabbing needily at the hem of Ace's shirt as he kissed him back. Ace worked his fingers up through Marcel's hair, his large hands framing Marcel's small face. "Come on," Ace murmured, still brushing his lips over Marcel's. "We gotta go."

Marcel's eyes opened as Ace pulled him towards the door. _"Go? _Go where?_" _

Ace paused, and turned around to give him a look. "Whaddya mean _where? Away, _from here." Marcel's eyebrows knit together, and his throat felt very dry. "Look, just tell 'em we're going for a walk."

Marcel blinked rapidly as Ace opened the door, and tugged him through it, out back into the main room. His blood was rushing in his ears again, and him feel as though the walls of the room were shrinking and pressing in on him. "I—I _can't,_" he said in a panicked whisper.

Ace furrowed his brow, once again looking at him as if he were crazy. "Whaddya mean you _can't?_" He asked, his voice tipped with anger.

"I can't leave, Ace," He said, still too quiet for anyone else to hear. "I—I need to be here, I'm...I'm not right. I need help."

"Marcey, what are they telling you here?" Ace asked. "You're fine, don't listen to this whackjobs." He pulled on Marcel's arm again, but Marcel kept his feet rooted to the ground.

"I can't go with you," Marcel said, his voice rising a bit. A fiery look flashed through Ace's eyes, and Marcel looked down, clasping his hands together. "You... you _hurt _me, Ace." He whispered. "You took me away from my family...and my friends..." He shook his head. "It was wrong."

"Mars,"

Marcel's head popped up at the nickname, and he turned around to find Michael standing behind him with a very hurt, confused look on his face. Marcel's stomach flipped. "What's going on?" Michael asked, not bothering to hide the distress in his words.

Marcel opened his mouth, with no idea of what he was going to say. It didn't matter though, because before he could make a sound, Ace had stepped up next to him and was giving Michael a disparaging once-over.

"Who's _this, _Marcey?" Ace sneered. Marcel could see Michael's jaw tighten as he glared back at Ace, and he noticed his left hand was curled into a tight fist.

"Michael," Marcel said, answering Ace in a kicked voice. "He's...he's my boyfriend."

"_Boyfriend?" _Ace repeated, letting out a loud laugh. "You got a _boyfriend _in here? That's...that's cute, Marcey. S'really cute."

"Shut the fuck up," Michael snapped, taking a step forward.

"_Ooh, _boyfriends angry,_" _Ace mocked, a jeering smile on his face. "You got a thing for angry guys, huh Marcey? What, did he remind you of me or something?"

"Shut up," Marcel grumbled, glaring at Ace. "He's nothing like you."

Ace ran his tongue over his teeth, looking from Marcel to Michael. Marcel could see the anger building up behind his eyes, and when he spoke it was with a clipped restraint that Marcel knew meant he was trying to yell. "Is _he _the reason you don't want to leave with me?" He asked, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Are you _fucking _kidding me?"

"Excuse me, sir—"

Marcel turned around, and felt a strange little flutter of relief when he saw Sheila striding into the room, Casey close at her heel.

"Sir, you need to leave." Sheila said, giving Ace a look that would make most men shake in their boots.

Ace, unfortunately, was not most men. There was only one person in the world he was scared of, and Sheila wasn't him.

"This is bullshit," Ace said to Marcel, ignoring Sheila. "Fucking bullshit."

"If you don't leave now, I'm going to call security and they will _drag _you out of here, do you understand, _sir?_"

"This is not how I wanted to do this," Ace said, oblivious to Sheila's threats. He pointed a finger a in Marcel's face. "I wanted to do things nice. Simple. _Easy. _But now you fucked everything up—"

Ace reached around to the back of his jeans, and pulled out a gun. Marcel heard a few people gasp, and and even Sheila looked stricken. Marcel registered the gun immediately, but it wasn't until the barrel was pointed squarely at Michael's forehead that the panic set in.

"So how about this," Ace said, slightly calmer now that everyone else was on edge. "You come with me now, _or _I blow your boyfriends brains out. And _then _you come with me."

Marcel missed it, but Sheila must have made a move—a step in some direction, making to grab at taser Marcel knew she had on her belt—and Ace swiftly turned the gun on her, flicking the safety off. "Get the fuck on the ground," He snarled. "Hands up where I can see 'em while you do it, and keep 'em above your head when you're on the floor. The rest of your crazy people," Ace said, addressing the other patients that were scattered around the room. Marcel had thought he'd seen Lina and Tiffany over by the TV area, but he wasn't sure. "Don't you fucking move."

Casey and Sheila had both sunk to their knees, a look of pure loathing in Sheila's eyes, and an equally intense look of fear in Casey's. Once they were both lying down on the floor, Ace turned the gun back towards Michael. The look on Michael's face was nothing short of murderous.

"Hey, what's—woah."

Robbie had just emerged from the kitchen, apparently drawn out by the shouting, only to find the gun now pointing at him. He held his hands up, eyes darting from Marcel to Ace, trying to figure out what the hell he'd just walked into.

"Are there anymore of these guys fucking around here?" Ace asked, gritting his teeth as he kept his gun on Robbie.

Marcel shook his head. "Just these three."

"Good. Get the fuck over by the girls," Ace instructed, jerking his gun in their direction. Robbie nodded, and began walking over to where Sheila and Casey were on the ground, but Ace seemed to reconsider, and he stuck his arm out, stopping Robbie against it. "Wait," he said, running his eyes over him and taking in Robbie's blond hair and pretty blue eyes. The corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. "You I kinda like..."

"Ace..." Marcel said, recognizing the hungry look on his face all too well. Robbie's mouth was drawn into a tight line, and Marcel could see a look of mingled disgust and fear in his eyes.

"What?" Ace said, still looking Robbie over. "You expect me to turn down a piece of blond ass when it just wanders into the room like that?" He tilted his head to the side, grinning cruelly at Robbie. Ace had the side of the gun pressed against Robbie's chest, and he trailed it slowly down to his stomach. Robbie's breath hitched and became shallow, and a small, desperate noise escaped from his throat. Marcel couldn't take it anymore.

"_Stop, _Ace._" _He cried, stepping in between Robbie and Ace. "I'll go with you, okay? Just don't hurt anyone."

"Marcel, _no—_" Robbie said, looking at him with wide, warning eyes.

"Shut up, Blondie." Ace snapped, shoving Robbie out of the way. Robbie stumbled, but regained his balance quickly. "Over with the girls, hands where I can see 'em."

Robbie glanced back to Marcel for a moment, but Ace jerked his gun impatiently, and Robbie did as he was told, lying down a foot from Sheila.

"I thought you wanted to stay with your boyfriend," Ace said, turning his attention back to Marcel. "You don'twant _me._"

Marcel shook his head, putting his hand on Ace's arm. "I was just scared to leave...I was being stupid. You're the one I want, the one I've been waiting all this time for."

Ace looked down at him, and Marcel could see the reservations in his eyes...but he wanted to believe him, he could see that too. Marcel just had to make him. "And the boyfriend?" Ace asked.

"He's nothing," Marcel said, keeping his eyes trained on Ace's as he spoke. "Just a boy...I need more than that," He raised himself up onto his toes, leaning in press to his mouth against Ace's. "I need you..."

Ace pressed a hand against Marcel's back, practically lifting Marcel up off his feet as he kissed him back, forcing Marcel's lips apart with his own and thrusting his tongue inside with such ferocity that Marcel had to wonder how much of this was for Michael's benefit. He almost couldn't believe that Ace felt so threatened by him.

Ace pulled back suddenly, pointing the gun in Sheila's direction. Sheila's head was raised, and her left hand had been moving slowly down to her belt. "Hands back above your head, cunt," Ace snapped. "I swear I will shoot off both your fucking tits if you make one more goddamned move."

"Ace, let's just go," Marcel said, trying to recapture his attention. "If you shoot the gun, some'll hear and call the cops and getting away'll just be that much harder."

Ace glanced at him, and nodded. "Yeah, you're right. Let's go—"

"No!" Michael shouted, lunging forward at Ace, his fist swinging. He managed to land a solid punch across Ace's jaw before Ace brought the barrel of the gun across Michael's face, where it smashed into his nose and sent blood flying.

"Michael!" Marcel cried, rushing over to him as Michael fell back against the wall, cupping a hand around his nose. "Oh my god, Michael I'm so sorry—" Michael's nose was crooked, bent to the side and blood was gushing down as if from a tap. Marcel removed the shirt he was wearing—one of the dark flannel ones Eddie had bought him—and bunched it up, pressing it under Michael's nose and trying to stop the bleeding. Blood was everywhere, and Marcel wiped one hand on the grey t-shirt he was wearing, leaving a red streak. "Oh god..."

"Please don't go, Mars." Michael whispered, as Marcel held his bloodied shirt up to his broken nose.

Tears welled up in Marcel's eyes as he looked at what had happened to his boyfriend because of him. "I don't want to," Marcel confessed. He shook his head, and a few tear drops rolled down his cheeks. "I don't."

Marcel's shoulders tensed as he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked, and he turned to find Ace pointing the gun directly between him and Michael, as though he hadn't yet decided which one of them he wanted to shoot. "Well, isn't this _nice._" Ace seethed, his voice wavering manically. "You're a perfect couple, aren't you? The psycho loser and the lying little _slut._"

"Please, Ace," Marcel said, wiping the tears from his eyes with a blood stained hand. "Please, if you ever cared about me at all...please let me stay, please. Just leave with out me...just go."

"Just go?" Ace asked, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "_Just go! Do you have any idea what I've given up for you, you cocksucking shit?_" Ace shouted, his face bright red. "I sacrificed _everything _for you! Jack, Stevie, Howie—those guys've been my fucking _family _since I was 17 and I sent them to _jail _for you! Jail, Marcey! Do you have any idea what that means? Huh? How the fuck do you think someone like _Stevie _is doing in jail right now? Or hell, even _Jack _before they figure out what a _psycho _he is—"

Ace broke off and ran his fingers through his grown out buzz cut, seemingly overcome with emotion. He shook his head, and resumed his focus on Marcel and Michael, who had their arms around each other on the floor. Ace gave them a disgusted look. "You're pathetic, Marcey, you know that?" Ace sneered, his lip curling up. "You think he'll even _want _you after he figures out what a _whore _you are? Oh no, he is," Ace said, when it looked as Michael was going to say something in protest. "Believe me, he is. He's a fucking cum-dumpster. I made sure of that, myself." He grinned. "You know, I have never seen someone take a dick quite like Marcey here," He said, and Marcel cast his eyes down, ashamed. He wished he could stop Michael from hearing this, because he knew Ace was right. Michael would never look at him the same way if he knew. "If you had any idea about all the times I stuffed my cock up his sweet little ass, or made him lick the cum off my dick after I fucked his mouth—"

"Oh, come of it, Ace," Marcel snapped, tears still streaming down his face. "Who are you trying to kid? We _both _know you were happiest when it was _my _dick up _your _ass."

"You shut the fuck up!" Ace shouted, waving the gun around.

"What, suddenly you're all shy?" Marcel asked. He could feel Michael tighten his grip on his arm, as if warning him to be quiet, but he didn't listen. "A minute ago you were all for sharing. So come on, Ace. Tell them about the way you _love _taking it up the ass, or the way you used to _whine _when I fingered you, always so _impatient—_"

"Marcel, stop."

Ace instantly pointed his gun to the direction the voice had come from, and Marcel looked over as well, and saw Lina taking a step away from the couch where she'd been standing. "You're just upsetting him." She said, taking another step towards them.

"Stop fucking moving," Ace demanded.

Lina held up her hands. "I'm on your side," She said calmly. "I think he should go with you."

Marcel looked at her, alarmed. _"What?"_

Lina looked him in the eye, moving slowly forward. "Marcel, what are you doing?" She asked. "I know you want to go with him. I know how crazy you were without him. How much you missed the way things were. It's where you belong. Not here, not with with Michael..."

Marcel could only stare at her, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"I know you wanted you to love him, Marcey, I know you tried." She said, glancing at Michael. "But we both know it couldn't have worked. You'll never love anyone like you love Ace..."

"Lina," He sobbed, shaking his head. "You don't understand—"

"I do," Lina insisted, only a few feet away now. "Better than anyone. And that's why I can't let you mess this up. Do you have any idea what I could give, for my uncle to come get me? To take me away from all this crap, tell me he loved me just one more time...tell me how special I am...I'd give anything."

"Yeah," Ace said, the gun pointing back at Marcel as Lina reached his side. "Listen to the crazy girl—no offence. I mean, she's in love with her uncle. What we have is _way_ less fucked up—" Ace was cut off as Lina suddenly threw her self forward at Ace, clawing at his face. Ace screamed in agony as Lina's long fingernails dug into his eyelids, and he staggered backwards, dropping the gun as he clutched at his face.

The gun went off with a _bang _as it hit the ground, and a few people screamed as the bullet hit the TV, causing the screen to shatter, and the inside to smoke.

Sheila was up in an instant, and she snatched the gun off the ground and pointed it at Ace, who was still agonizing over his eye. "Casey, make sure Lina's okay," Sheila instructed, holding the gun with both hands. "Robbie, call security. Tell them to send some paramedics up too."

Robbie and Casey picked themselves off the ground and went to follow Sheila's instructions. Casey knelt down to where Lina had been shoved to the ground, and Robbie ran over to the phone by the door.

"Are you two alright?" Sheila asked, glancing at Marcel and Michael out of the corner of her eye.

Marcel nodded, his head still spinning. "Yeah, I am...but Michael's nose is broken."

"M'fine," Michael mumbled, holding onto the wall as he stumbled to his feet. Marcel followed, holding tightly to Michael's arm.

"You're not fine, your nose is broken." Marcel cried. He could feel his face flushing and his heart beating quickly as he looked from Michael's bloody face, to Ace sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. His left eye was shut tightly and Marcel could see dark red marks in the shape of Lina's nails making a line across it. "You broke his fucking nose, you asshole!" He shouted, reaching forward and kicking Ace's leg.

Ace glared at him, but seemed to have resigned himself to capture. "I hope you two are real fucking happy together," He grumbled. "And I sure hope you can keep the little slut satisfied," He shot at Michael. "God knows he's a needy little bitch—"

"That's a fucking 'nough from you, you piece of shit," Sheila spat. Ace glared at her, and she licked her lips. "Marcel..." She said slowly, glancing at him. "Security won't be here for another minute...if you ever wanted to have your 'I spit on your grave' moment, now's probably the time."*

Marcel nodded, not entirely sure of the movie or book she was referencing, but understanding the point anyways. He looked down at Ace, who'd hurt him so much, and loved him, and come back for him to hurt him some more...and he pulled his foot back again, this time landing a hard kick on Ace's ribs. Ace lurched forward slightly, cringing in pain, and Marcel pulled back and kicked him again and again.

"You stupid fucking piece of shit!" He shouted as hot angry tears fell from his eyes. "I hate you for what you did to me! I hate you for taking me away, and torturing me and _ruining me!_" He fell to his knees and began smashing his fists against him once more, this time using all his strength. He wanted Ace to feel all the pain he'd felt, want to break him like he'd been broken, to make him weep and beg for him to stop. "You ruined me!" He screamed, his arms tired and close to giving out. "I hate you! I hate you so much..."

Exhausted, he collapsed backwards, but instead of falling back on the floor he found himself in Michael's arms, sobbing onto his shoulder. Michael stroked his hair and held him, whispering that it was okay, everything was fine. Marcel continued to cry, because it wasn't. Nothing was fine, and it never would be. Not even with all of them already behind bars, and Ace joining them shortly, given over the place where with any luck, Jack would take care of what Marcel had been too weak to accomplish. Even if every one of them rotted and died in jail, it would still never undo the damage that had been done to him.

"You're not ruined, Mars," Michael murmured in his ear, holding him as close as he could. "Not ruined..."

Marcel dug his fingers into Micheal's arm, and tried to stop himself from shaking. It would never be over...not really...but as his tears began to stop, a part of him hoped that now he could start to move on.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Man if feels good to get that chapter out of my head (it's been in there since the beginning, I swear). **

**R.I.P the TV. **

Out of curiosity, how much do all of you _care _about Ace, and Jack and Stevie...etc. I mean, how curious would you say you are about them? There have been a lot of hints in regards to their history together, and how they sort of all got together...hints about Jack, and why Ace thinks he's such a nut, etc.

Anyone? One person? A mild, passing interest?

Yeah...I may have started a story about them. Sort of a prequel, I suppose. It just happened, I swear I didn't plan it. Anyways, I'll probably put it up on my fictionpress account (of which there is currently nothing on) along with the other Marcel/Michael story, when both are done. I'll post something in here, too, even if no one wants to read either story because...well 'cause I wrote 'em, and I'm gonna annoy as many people into reading them as I can.

*I Spit On Your Grave is a rapexplotation film from the 70's, about a woman who is gang raped and left for dead, only she doesn't die and then seeks bloody revenge on the men who hurt her.


	21. Aftermath

**Aftermath**

Marcel fiddled with his hands, clasping and unclasping them on the table as a middle aged police man with thick, angular eyebrows stared at him, waiting for him to answer. When Marcel had first sat down in the private visiting room for questioning, he'd had the strange feeling that he'd met this man before. Pete had then informed him that Captain Anthony Rogers had been the officer in charge of his 'missing persons' case. He'd met him when he'd been in the hospital, right after they'd found him, and he'd questioned him then too. Marcel could imagine that his answers then had been less than helpful.

"Marcel?" Captain Rogers said gently. "Do you want me to repeat the question?"

Marcel shook his head, and glanced at Pete, who was sitting next to him. "Take your time, Marcel," Pete said gently. "And remember, you're not in any trouble."

Marcel nodded, and lowered his eyes. "Yes," he said slowly. He kept his head lowered as he answered, sure he wouldn't be able to lift it even if he'd wanted to. The shame he felt was an almost physical weight on him, forcing his head down. "...I knew who he was when I told Casey to let him in,"

"Because of the card he gave you?" Rogers asked, making notes on a pad he had with him.

Marcel nodded again. "I didn't even think about it..." He whispered, his shoulders sinking further. "I looked at the card...and I knew it was him...and I just said 'let him in.'" He shook his head, putting a hand against his eye.

Next to him, Pete patted him softly on the back. "It's alright Marcel, no one's blaming you."

Marcel sniffed, and wiped at a tear on his cheek. "But it was my fault,"

"None of this was your fault," Pete insisted. "The ones to blame are behind bars, alright? This was _their _fault. Not yours, not in any way. I need you to believe that,"

Marcel moaned and shook his head, and Captain Rogers shifted around in his chair. "Doc's right, Marcel." He said. "In fact, the fault's a lot more mine than yours," Marcel looked up quizzically, and the Captain smiled at him. "Your Mr. Eisenberg sure thinks so,"

Marcel's stomach did small flips at the mention of him. "Michael? You talked to Michael?" He hadn't seen Michael since the day before, before he'd been taken down to the medical ward to have the doctors fix his nose. Then Marcel had been given some medication from Sheila to help him sleep, and when he'd woken up he'd been told to have breakfast and then go to one of the visiting rooms for questioning.

Rogers nodded, still smiling, but with a slightly wary look in his eye. "A few hours ago," He said, scratching at his head. His hairline was receding slightly, and Marcel could see a three red lines appear under the parts where his hair was thinning. "He said it's the police's fault for not doing our jobs in the first place, and catching Williams along with the rest of 'em. 'Course I'm paraphrasing; he was slightly more colourful than that."

Marcel furrowed his brow. "Williams?"

"Yeah, the man who assaulted you, Mr. Eisenberg, and Ms. Vogel yesterday—along with half the ward, too. Williams. Pacey Williams."

"_Pacey?_" Marcel cried, lurching forward a bit. "His real name is _Pacey?_"

Rogers nodded. "Yeah...you knew him as Ace, I guess, but originally he was Pacey Williams...helluva surprise to have him turn up yesterday, since he was supposed to have been _dead _for 15 years, but there you go..."

Marcel breathed out through his nose, his head swimming. He couldn't believe he'd be hurt so badly by a man with a name like Pacey. _Jesus._

"We're just glad no one got seriously hurt, and you didn't go with him yesterday," Captain Rogers said. "I'd never forgive myself if we'd lost you again."

* * *

><p>Marcel raised his hand up to his forehead, shielding his eyes against the blinding light of the sun. It was too harsh...painful. He turned away from it, dropping his arm from his forehead and hugging himself.<p>

Once Captain Rogers had finished questioning him, and he'd spent a few minutes talking to Pete, he'd gone back out to the main room and asked Casey where Michael was.

Casey told him Michael had gone outside. Out to the back of the hospital where there was a sort of garden, apparently.

Marcel had been nervous about being able to find him, and it seemed only more hopeless now that he was actually outside, for what felt like the first time in a year. _Was_ the first time in a year, actually. He'd been kept inside so long, he'd forgotten how big the world was...how long the sky went on for...too long.

Forever.

He could safely say he did not like it out here. Not at all. The smells were too strong, the light was too bright, the colour too intense...he wanted to be back inside the bin, with it's faded walls, and faded couches and lights that could be dimmed if they were too bright.

Still, he continued to stumble around the garden, which really just seemed to him like a big fenced in field with some bushes and trees, and looked around for Michael. He was out here, somewhere, and Marcel was going to find him.

Marcel squinted in the sun light, raking his eyes over the area in front of him for a figure that looked like Michael. Finally he spotted him sitting on a stone bench by what was probably supposed to be a small pond, but to Marcel looked more like an extra large puddle. Michael was sitting in his usual hunched over way, shoulders slumped and forearms resting on his thighs. He didn't look up when Marcel sat down next to him, nor when Marcel put a hand on his back. "Hey," Marcel said quietly. Michael didn't respond, and the silence made Marcel's stomach hurt. "Are you okay?"

Michael turned towards him slightly, and Marcel cringed when he got a glimpse of his face. The bridge of his nose was black and purple around a rectangular bandage, bruised and gory where it had been broken and then snapped back into place. There were dark purple circles under his eyes, and Michael raised his eyebrows slightly as if to say _"do I look okay?" _

Marcel hesitated, biting back his next question for fear of what the answer was. _...Are we okay...?_

"You talked to Special Officer Commanding Captain Rogers yet?" Michael asked, turning back to the pond.

Marcel smiled a little. "Yeah...just finished with him now, actually."

"What'd he ask you about?"

Marcel shrugged, following Michael's gaze and staring at the pond himself. The water was dark and murky, heavy with mud and floating weeds. A light breeze was blowing, creating soft ripples across it's gloomy surface. "About whether I knew it was Ace when I said to let him in yesterday, and my version of what happened," He mumbled, transfixed by the swirling patterns in the polluted water.

"You _did, _right?" Michael asked, his voice coarse. Marcel lifted his eyes up from the water, and found Michael staring angrily at him. "You knew it was him, and you let him in."

Marcel bit his lip, shrinking under the harshness of Michael's glare. "Michael, I–"

"_Don't." _Michael growled. "Don't bother. You _knew _it was him...and you knew he was out there, this whole time, looking for you...you knew everything and you never said a word. About anything."

"I didn't know he was looking for me!" Marcel insisted, trying to blink away the tears forming in his eyes.

Michael shook his head. "I saw you, Marcel." Michael said, his stormy eyes boring back into Marcel's. "I was there when he walked in... I saw you run up to him, throw your arms around him and shove your tongue into that perverts mouth. And I was just standing there like an _idiot,_ holding those fucking ice-cream bars in my hands..."

"Michael, you don't understand!" He pleaded.

"No, I really don't this time." Michael said. "When you first came out of that private room, if I hadn't said something, would you just have gone with him right then? Just left?"

"No! I _never _wanted to go with him, not all. How could I? I—I just started getting my life back. I just fixed things with my friends, my Dad..." Marcel looked down at his lap. "I just figured out how much I love you. I didn't want to go..."

Michael was silent for a moment. "When he came through the door...you just looked so happy..." He said quietly. "I...it hurt, to see you like that...with someone else..."

Marcel nodded, still staring down at his hands in his lap. "I know...I'm sorry..." He said. "I just...my feelings for Ace—for all of them—they're...they're confusing," A tear drop fell into the palm of his hand, and Marcel squeezed his eyes shut, sending more tears crashing down his flushed cheeks. "I know that what I'm feeling is wrong...but...but I think it might be a long time before I don't feel it anymore." He put his head in hands, sobbing. He hated himself, he hated what he'd let happen—to Robbie, to Michael, to their _relationship. _He'd never felt so much hatred for any person before. Not even Ace. Not even Jack.

"Marcel..."

Marcel shook his head again, and looked at Michael through tear blurred eyes. "I'm s-sorry Michael," He sobbed. "I kn-know I've messed up _so much _already...I kn-know you put up with s-so much but _please, _please give me one more chance," He begged. Michael had turned towards him, and Marcel dropped his head down into Michael's lap, wrapping his arms around his waist and sobbing against him. "Please don't l-leave me...don't give up on me...don't leave..."

Marcel continued to cry, even as he felt Michael run his fingers through his hair, making attempts to soothe him. "Marcel, come on..." Michael murmured. "Open your eyes."

Micheal's hand was resting against his cheek, fingers still tangled in his hair, and Marcel allowed him to guide his head up, until they were eye level again. Marcel sniffed, relieved to see Michael looking calmer, less angry. "I'm not going anywhere, Marcel." Michael said softly. "Alright?"

Marcel sniffed again and nodded. He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe some of the tears off his face. Michael took his fingers out from his hair, and turned back towards the dark pond. "I'm sorry, Mars..." He mumbled. "I shouldn't have gotten so upset...I know you didn't mean..." He shook his head. "I know this was hard on you, too."

Michael sighed. "I just...I wish you'd said something. Told someone...told me. About any of this." He looked at him sadly. "I tell you everything, Mars. I tell you about stuff it took me a year to be able to tell Kay. And—and I know I said I didn't expect anything from you, I know but...I mean...you kept so much..."

"I couldn't tell you, Michael." Marcel said. "I couldn't talk about it...some of it I didn't want to admit to myself. It's just too..." He lowered his head, feeling tears well up in his eyes again. "I'm too ashamed...the things I did...the things they made me do—" He broke off, unable to force anymore out of his mouth. He could still hear Ace's voice in his head, telling Michael all the sick things he'd made him do. He felt nauseous at the memory.

"Mars, whatever you did, you did because you were scared. You did it to survive. You have _nothing _to be ashamed of." Michael said, taking Marcel's hand.

"It's easy to say, it's not so easy to believe," Marcel whispered.

"I believe it," Michael said. He squeezed his hand. "But...I don't expect you to tell me about...about that. That's not what I'm asking...I understand if you can't talk about it..."

"Then what are you asking?"

"I'm asking you to let me in," Michael answered. "Tell me what you're feeling, and thinking...all of it. I want you to be able to talk to me about being confused, and hurt, and scared. I want to be the person that you can tell the things you don't want to tell anyone else to. I want you to trust that if they made you feel weak, I'm gonna make you feel strong. If they made you feel scared, I'll make you feel safe. I want you to trust that when I say I'm not going anywhere, I mean it." Michael smiled, and through his tears, Marcel smiled back at him. "They can't take me away from you, remember?"

Marcel laughed, and Michael grinned, moving closer to him on the bench. He kissed Marcel on the cheek, and Marcel wiped away the last of his tears. "I want to be able to talk to you about that stuff..." He said slowly, though he wasn't entirely sure he meant it. "The stuff I don't want to tell anyone else...I want to be able to tell you...and maybe Pete..." Michael nodded. "I just need some time...I need for things to calm down a bit...let me get my head back on straight."

"Yeah, sure—I mean, yeah." Michael said, nodding vigourously.

Marcel's stomach churned, and he supposed he _did _mean it, in a way. He was scared to tell Michael—or anyone—about all the things he'd kept inside for so long. They way he'd missed them all so much, and his chest had ached to have them back. The way he'd held onto the idea that they could be looking for him, trying to find him so they could take him away. The way he'd believed—truly believed—that they'd loved him...the way he still believed it, in some small way, even if he knew it was wrong. Even if he knew it was all wrong.

He was scared to talk about that, unbelievably scared...but if there was anyone worth pushing through his fears for, it was Michael.

And maybe it was time, too. Time to start moving on...letting go.

Michael smiled at him, and Marcel smiled back. He put his arms over Michael's shoulders, brushing his nose along Michael's cheek before kissing him on the lips. He was too shaky to give Michael a proper kiss, and instead just wound up smooshing their faces together in a way that ended with them breaking out into a fit of laughter...but it was nice anyways.

They were both turned to face each other now—Michael had one leg slung over the side of the bench, straddling it, and Marcel and put his legs over Michaels thighs, circling his waist.

"Michael?" Marcel whispered, resting his forehead against his. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah," Michael said.

Marcel squinted. "Why'd you come outside?"

Michael looked surprised at the question. "Oh...I dunno," He said, shrugging. "I mean, I guess I figured that with the TV busted, now was probably a good time to do it...start getting back into the world. Why?"

"No reason..." Marcel mumbled, squirming slightly. Michael raised his eyebrows at him, and Marcel bit down on his lip. "I just don't like it out here, is all. It's too...I don't know, it's too _out. _That's stupid, I know—"

"It's not," Michael reassured him. "It's not stupid. I know what you mean...how about five more minutes, and then we'll go in, alright?"

Marcel hesitated. He didn't want to spend another second out here, let alone five whole minutes. He wanted to go back inside, where it was safe and familiar and secure. Slowly, he forced himself to nod. "Alright," He said quietly. "Five more minutes."

Michael smiled, and kissed his forehead. "Hey, come on I wanna show you something," He said suddenly, swinging his leg back over the bench and standing up. Marcel followed, and Michael led him over to the edge of the pond, and crouched down. "Look,"

Marcel crouched down as well, and looked at the muddy water. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"You have to look closely," Michael explained, pointing. Marcel squinted, leaning in closer. "There's fish in there."

"Fish?" Marcel asked. He raised his eyebrows, as something yellow flashed under the surface. "Holy fuck, there's a goddamned fish in there!"

"There's two, actually," Michael said, grinning. "Well, two that I've seen...the waters really dark so I guess more could be hiding. I've named the smaller yellowy one Justin, and the bigger darkish one Brian."

Marcel turned and raised an eyebrow at Michael, but he was too busy staring at the pond to notice. "Oh, look there's Brian!" He said, pointing to the middle, where a bigger goldfish with dark gold scales had popped it's head up. A second after it re-submerged, there was a swish of a yellow tail after it. Michael grinned. "Justin's following him."

"How the hell do you think they manage to _live _in there?" Marcel asked, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. "The water's disgusting... it's probably polluted. They should be dead."

Michael shrugged. "I guess they're stronger than you think," He said, stretching out on the grass. He lay on his stomach, propping his chin up with his elbows and looking for flashes of yellow and gold in the dirty water.

"How do they even see where they're swimming?" Marcel mumbled, frowning at the gloomy pond. "The water's practically opaque, they probably don't have any idea what's around them, or if it's safe... I bet it's scary."

"Well, yeah," Michael agreed. "It's definitely scary, but they'll be okay. I mean sure, they don't know what's gonna happen, and their ponds all dark and scary...but at least their together, right? That way they can help each other out...keep each other safe. They'll be okay."

Marcel chewed his lower lip, and looked at Michael. There was a calm, almost serene look on his face as he watched the two fish swimming around in their grungy little home. The sun was shining on him, picking out warm highlights in his dark hair, and making his blue eyes glint. Marcel smiled at him, and lay down next to him on the grass. "I think you're right," He said, reaching over to take Michael's hand. "They'll be okay."

**The End**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm still mulling over an epilogue, but if I did it would probably be like a one-year-later type deal.**

**I'm sorry if this feels abrupt, but I kind of realized I didn't have any plot left after the whole thing with Ace.  
><strong>

**Speaking of Ace, the first part of his (and Jack's and Stevie's and etc) story is now up on my Fiction press account, and there's a link to it on my profile. It goes into further depth about "Pacey Williams" and the mysterious being dead thing. It's called "House of Cards."**

**Marcel's other story will probably be up in a few days...well the first part. **

**I love you guys, and I hope to see a few of you over at the other stories! **


	22. Epilogue: 6 months later

**6 months later**

Marcel drummed his fingers on the table, fighting back against the urge to flee. That would be immature...

Next to him, Michael was jiggling both his legs under the table, making the ground shake a little. It should have been comforting to know that at least he wasn't alone in wanting to run, but it wasn't. He'd been telling Michael all day that this wouldn't be awkward, it would be fine and everything would go well...he hadn't believed it himself, and he knew Michael had believed him either. Still, much as he'd been dreading this, even he hadn't anticipated this level of tension.

The last six months had been full of change and adjustment for both Michael and Marcel. They'd both sort of panicked their way through Michael's switch to out-patienting, which put him back at school part time (he was attending an alternative education school, which only required him to be at school for two periods a day. The rest was completed online). After a month, Marcel had been surprised to find that he could actually handle being away from Michael for even several days at a time, and after two months Michael had found he could tolerate staying with his brother Mitch on weekends. More so, he could tolerate being away from the bin, which had been his home for an entire year.

Then had come the next step, leaving the bin for good and staying with his brother full time. He would still be going back for therapy appointments and group, but that was all.

It hadn't been as difficult as Michael had thought it would be, but it hadn't been easy either. He'd been living with Mitch for four months now, and he was still getting used to the quiet.

Marcel's transition had been quicker. He'd been away from his home for so long, both him and his father were eager for him to return, so they could start rebuilding their lives. His friends had all shown up on his final day at the bin, and along with Michael, helped him move his few belongings out of his room, into his fathers car, and then back to his house.

When he'd walked through the door for the first time, Marcel had actually burst into tears. If someone had asked him what he was feeling, he wouldn't have known a single way to tell them. But no one asked. Instead, the moment he began to cry Marcel immediately had the arms of seven different people around him, squeezing him so tightly that if Michael hadn't said something, he was sure he would have passed out.

Marcel had almost had a heart attack when he'd gotten to his room. Mostly because it didn't look a thing like his room. When he'd left it, it had been covered with tacky posters of celebrities he'd hated, his desk strewn with worthless gossip and fashion magazines. He'd had bright orange drapes and a matching bright orange duvet, both of which he'd detested the sight of.

Someone had done some renovations.

The posters were gone, replaced with a few simple black picture frames featuring candids of Marcel and his friends, Marcel and his father, and one of Michael with his arm around him. Marcel had no idea when that had been taken.

He had new drapes, the awful orange ones replaced with deep, elegant maroon. The fluffy looking comforter on his bed matched.

There wasn't a magazine in sight, and the small rack of CD's he'd had was gone as well. Instead, next to his desk was the one thing Marcel'd had in his "old" room that he'd actually liked. His bookcase, which he'd kept hidden far back in his closet. His Dad had found it and taken it out, and Marcel started crying again at the sight of it.

"Do you like it?" Pat had tentatively questioned. "We figured, with everything you told us, your room could probably use a make over...is it more _you_ now?"

Marcel had been crying almost too hard to answer, but he managed to find the space between sobs to gasp out "It's _p-perfect!_"

After two months of living with his father again, they'd only just begun to settle into something slightly resembling normal. They were still tip toeing around each other, neither sure of how to act and both ashamed of their past behaviour. But it was getting better, and it was the best either of them could do.

Both Marcel and Michael still felt shaky, still nervously trying to adjust to lives that were both new and old at the same time. Marcel had just begun thinking of the house he lived in as his home again, and Michael had just begun feeling at home in his brothers new apartment.

And then this dinner had been suggested, and suddenly the only thing either of them could think of was making a run for it, back to the bin and Michael's old room so they could hide under the covers with Sheila and Casey checking on them every half an hour.

Marcel had been sure it was a bad idea the moment it had been conceived by Michael's mother, and now that it was actually in progress he knew he'd been right. Across from him, Michael's mother was giving him a very apologetic look, and at the head of the table, Mitch—who had previously been attempting to hold up some kind of conversation—was staring very pointedly at his plate, uncharacteristically quiet. Marcel could sense his own father fidgeting on his other side, and Michael looked more like he wanted to run with each passing second. It would appear that they were all in agreement that yes, this had been a very bad idea.

Across the table from Michael, sitting with a grumpy expression next to Michael's mother was the source of all the insurmountable tension, Michael's father. He'd spent the better part of the meal—and god Marcel couldn't believe they weren't even halfway through it yet—glaring across the table at them, fiddling with his cutlery in a way that reminded Marcel far too much of Michael for him too like.

"So, uh...Max," Marcel's Dad said, addressing Michael's father. "What kind of business are you in?"

"I'm an account, with Madrox&Miller," Michael's father answered. "What do you do...Phil, was it?"

Marcel's Dad nodded. "Uh, I'm a contractor...right now we're working on this whole new block of townhouses downtown, it's gonna be like a two year job."

Joe gave a returning nod, looking from Marcel to his father. "Let me ask you a question, Phil," He said, "You seem like a guy with his head on his shoulders...what do you make of all..._this," _He waved his finger around at Michael and Marcel.

"Dad—" Michael growled,

"Max, now you promised you'd be nice," Michael's Mother cut in, her eyes pleading with her husband.

"I'm only asking him for his opinion, Miriam," Michael's father replied, giving her a patronizing look. "We're all entitled to our _opinions, _aren't we?"

He turned back to Marcel's father, who looked put on the spot. "Well?"

"Uh..." Phil said, looking around uncomfortably. "What do you mean, 'zactly?"

"I mean are you really okay with letting your son act this way? Indulge in this kind of...behaviour?"

Marcel saw his fathers eyes draw in a bit, and his brow furrowed. "I don't think I _let _my son be any way, anymore 'n' I let him have brown eyes, or I let him be short." Marcel opened his mouth, offended, and his Dad shot him an apologetic look. "Sorry Mars, but you are short." He turned back to Michael's Dad. "It's just the way he is, and there ain't nothing wrong with it."

Michael's Dad was shaking his head. "No, that's different. There's nothing wrong with being _short,_"

"An' there's nothin' wrong with bein' _gay _neither!" Phil growled. Marcel could tell he was getting upset, because he was dropping the letters off the ends of his words.

Michael's Dad looked like he was about to disagree, but Marcel's didn't let him. "I know where you're comin' from, Max, 'cause I used to be the same way, but believe me when I say it's _us _that's wrong. Not them. Guys like you 'n' me, _we're _the ones that gotta change, so we can do right by our kids."

"I'm doing right by my kid by putting my foot down on this," Max snapped. "The faster Michael gets over this, the faster we can—"

"Enough!" Michael shouted, slamming his hands against the table. He stood up violently, and looked at his father. "Dad, that's enough. I'm not going to sit here and listen to this anymore. You need to realize that this isn't something I'm going to get over. It's who I am and you need to accept it, or you can leave."

Michael's father stood up as well, glaring at his son. "Bull_shit _it's who you are. You were _not _a fag until this little shit came along and messed you up—"

"You're _not _gonna talk about my son like that, you god'amned prick!" Phil shouted, rising as well.

"It's your sons fault that my son is acting this way!" Max shouted back.

Michael slammed his fist on the table again, and all the cutlery and place settings jumped at the impact. "Motherfuck, Dad don't you get it? It's not _him _alright, it's _me! _When he first got to the bin I couldn't take my eyes off him. I _liked _him and I _wanted _him before he ever even thought about me! I went up to him and talked to him and _I kissed him! _He didn't do _anything _to me, alright? I'm with him because I _love him!_"

His father's face was bright red. "I'm not going to stand here and listen to this," He growled, stomping away from the table. He grabbed his jacket from the coat hanger by the door, turned around and shot one last furious glare at his son, then left.

A moment passed, and Mitch looked around the table, where everyone else was standing in stunned silence. "So, who wants corn on the cob?" He asked, holding out a dish.

* * *

><p>Marcel's father wound up taking Michael's mother home, after they'd finished their dinner and desert (Mitch and Michael had attempted to make apple pie, but they'd been so worried about burning it they hadn't cooked it for long enough, and the batter was still raw inside. Instead they had ice-cream).<p>

"Michael, I don't want you to listen to a thing your father says," Michael's mother told him, as they said goodbye at the door. "He's just being a big, ignorant idiot."

Michael smiled. "I know, Mom,"

"And Marcel," She said, turning to him. "Don't let either of my boys eat that pie until it's been properly cooked, alright?"

Marcel grinned. "Will do, Mrs. Eisenberg."

She smiled, and turned to leave but Marcel's Dad stopped her. "Wait," He said, turning to Marcel. "Aren't you coming with us, Mars?"

Michael and Marcel exchanged looks, and Mitch ducked his head, trying to hold back a snort. "Uhh," Marcel said. "Actually, Dad, I was gonna stay here tonight,"

His Dad's brow furrowed, "Oh..."

Michael's mother pursed her lips, "Right I'm going to wait out in the hall. You kids have fun—" She paused. "But not too much fun..."

"Uh, Mitch and I are gonna go start cleaning stuff up," Michael said, tugging on his brothers arm. Mitch nodded, and they went to the kitchen, leaving Marcel alone with his father.

"Do you, uh, have a toothbrush and stuff here?" His Dad asked, shifting around awkwardly.

Marcel nodded. "Yeah...toothbrush, pyjamas, change of clothes..."

"Good...good...that's good," Phil mumbled. He scratched at his head, still shifting on his feet. "Are you uh, sure about this?"

"Dad, come on," Marcel said, giving him his best 'now, we've talked about this' face. It wasn't as though this was the first time he and Michael had had a "sleepover," as his Dad refereed to it. In fact, this would be the third.

"I know, I know," His Dad said. "I just—" He shook his head. "Never mind. It's uh, it's good...you guys care about each other...you should express—I mean, it's healthy..."

Marcel's eyes bugged a little, "_Dad,_"

"Right, no, not going there."

"No, no we're not."

His Dad smiled. "Right...so, I'll be going then," He said. His Dad pulled him into a tight hug, and Marcel pressed his face against his fathers chest, hugging him back.

They pulled apart, and Marcel smiled. "We're probably just gonna go to sleep, Dad,"

His Dad snorted. "Right, sure you are Mars."

After his Dad left, Marcel helped Michael and Mitch finish cleaning up the kitchen. Then they said goodnight to Mitch, and went to Michael's room. Marcel figured they were going to stay up and talk for a while—he knew Michael had to still have been pretty upset about his Dad storming out. But instead, the moment the door was closed Michael pinned him against the wall and gave him a hard kiss. It was faster and far more frenzied than his usual kiss, and Marcel gasped a little as Michael's moved onto his neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin under his jaw.

Marcel was surprised, and a bit confused—he hadn't been lying to his father when he told him he'd thought they would just go to sleep—but that didn't stop him from instinctively responding to Michael's touch.

Michael dropped to his knees, and Marcel's brain began some sort of tug of war with itself. Half of it was saying he needed to put a stop to this now, because the longer he let it go on for the more difficult it would be to stop, and the other half was telling the first half to shut the fuck up and let him enjoy this.

Michael had his mouth pressed between his legs, and even over his jeans Marcel could still feel the heat of his breath and the press of his lips. He groaned, because it felt so good and he _so badly _wanted to listen to the second half of his brain...God, did he ever. They'd only done this sort of thing three times before, the first time being right after he'd done the Bad Thing. He'd very much like to do it again...

It killed Marcel that he already knew which half he was going to listen to.

"Michael, stop," Marcel gasped. "You h-have to..." He knew he must have sounded terribly unconvincing, but luckily it didn't matter. Michael stopped.

Marcel sighed, leaning back against the wall as he waited for his breath to slow. Michael was sitting back on his heels, his head lowered. "This isn't fair, Mi," Marcel said, shaking his head. "Not at all." He put his hand on Michael's cheek, and Michael stood up, and let his head drop against Marcel's shoulder.

"I know, I'm sorry," Michael mumbled, his words slightly muffled against Marcel's neck.

Marcel wrapped his arms over him, "Well, I forgive you," He said, giving him a squeeze. "And I want to, you know, do that stuff I just...I mean, you know what Pete said. It has to be for the right reasons..."

"I know, I know..." Michael said, shaking his head a little. "God I'm such a dick...I'm so sorry, Mars."

"Already forgiven, remember?" Marcel replied. He kissed Michael on the neck, and ran his fingers through his hair. "And you're not a dick, you're just emotional...and a teenage boy,"

"It's not an excuse," Michael said, leaning back. "I was angry at my father and all I could think about was getting you in here and blowing your brains out to give him and his 'you're not really gay' bullshit the middle finger—it was selfish and dumb, and I shoulda known better."

Marcel bit his lip lightly. "Totally forgiven, so long as you say the bit about wanting to blow my brains out again...but, say it slowly,"

Michael grinned at him, and kissed him on the forehead. "Another time...when you're the only thing on my mind and I'm the only thing on yours, and we're doing it for all the right reasons. Which does not include anything our fathers have said to us."

Marcel sighed. "Right...dumb Pete and his rules that make sense,"

* * *

><p>Afterwards, once they'd climbed into bed together, Marcel lay awake against Michael's chest. He thought about the first time they'd made love, after he'd done the Bad Thing. He smiled a little to himself. It seemed silly that a while ago he hadn't even considered anything non-penetrative real sex...it was obvious now that there was a lot more to sex than that.<p>

The smile slipped off his face as his thoughts turned to the Bad Thing itself. The Stupid Thing. The Awful thing.

He wondered now, looking back, if he had the chance to do it again, would he do things any differently? Gone straight to Michael and Mitch's apartment like he told his Dad he was going to, instead of taking a bus to Columbus' Federal Detention Centre?

He probably would...he'd hurt so many people...but something inside of him wasn't quite sure.

Afterwards, his Dad, Pete and Michael had all spent a lot of time asking him what he'd been thinking. The truth was, he didn't really know. That he wouldn't even be able to get in, mostly. He'd figured they'd have his name on some sort of special victim blacklist.

But when he'd given the guard his ID, all he'd done was write down his name and the time of his visit, told him the rules and buzzed him in to the prison's visiting room.

Marcel had spent a lot of time trying to decide which one of them to see. He'd been aware that this would most likely be the only chance he got, and he didn't want to waste it.

He'd already said his goodbye's to Ace, the day he'd held the bin up at gunpoint, and it's not like Howie had ever been a great conversationalist...he didn't have any desire to see Jack, ever again.

That only left one person.

When Stevie sat down on the other side of the glass, Marcel almost burst into tears. He had heavy black bags under his eyes, and he looked skinny and peaked. There was a hardness behind his eyes that hadn't been there before, and Marcel couldn't help but recalling what Ace had said to him at the bin. _"__How do you think someone like Stevie is doing in jail right now?__"_

Somehow, Stevie managed to give him a thin smile. "Hey there, Marcey,"

Marcel swallowed. "Hi, Stevie..." He whispered. "How...how are you?"

Stevie shrugged. "The food here leaves something to be desired, not to mention the _clothes,_" He said, gesturing with disdain to the awful orange jumper he was wearing.

Marcel felt his lower lip began to shudder, and tears welled up in his eyes. "S-stevie...I,"

"Oh, don't cry baby!" Stevie said. "Come on, we both know you're tougher than that,"

Marcel shook his head, wiping at his tears. "I'm s-so sorry Stevie, I n-never—"

"No, stop that _right now,_" Stevie commanded, pointing a finger at the glass. "You're not allowed to be sorry for _anything._" He swallowed._ "_I...I deserve this, sweetie."

"B-but...b-but w-what are they..." Marcel swallowed. "They're hurting you?"

Stevie lowered his eyes, and set his jaw. Marcel began to cry harder. "Marcey, I deserve that, too." He said quietly. Marcel shook his head in protest. "No, I do. And a lot worse."

Marcel sniffed, and wiped his eyes again. He knew Stevie was right, he deserved to be in jail...but he didn't deserve to be hurt that like. "Isn't there something you can do? Someone you can tell—a guard—"

Stevie shook his head. "It's not so bad anymore, Marcey. Howie protects me when he can, and Ace even broke someone's jaw in my defence." He chuckled humourlessly. "It's like high school all over again,"

"You...are you guys all together in there?"

"Somewhat. It's a big facility, and we're only allowed out of our cells in shifts. I almost never see Club or Lloyd. Howie's on my shift, so I see him the most. Ace is on 23 hour lockdown because of his 'behavioural issues,'"

Marcel chewed his lip. "But he's alive..." He said slowly. There was a small part of him that was relieved...and another that was disappointed. "I thought, considering what happened...Jack might do something to him,"

Stevie pursed his lips. "He's alive, yeah...missing his left eye though," He said. Marcel's eyes widened. "He kinda works the eye patch look,"

"What happened?" Marcel asked. "Did Jack—?"

"Not Jack...well, not Jack _personally. _Though I would be willing the man who did it was under a certain _influence._"

Marcel frowned. "Do you think he's gonna try something else?"

"Well, I think he'd like to," Stevie said slowly. "But it'll be kind of hard considering they transferred him a few months ago,"

Marcel raised his eyebrows. "To where?"

"Well, they made him undergo psychiatric evaluation after he kept stirring up the other inmates and manipulating the prison guards, and obviously he failed, so they sent him to some super-high security facility for the criminally insane," Stevie answered. "The whole Hannibal Lecter type deal."

"Wow," Marcel mumbled.

Stevie nodded. He looked at him sadly for a moment. "I'm so sorry, Marcey," He said. Stevie was resting his hands on the counter in front of him, and his fingers reached up a little, pressing against the glass between them. Marcel looked at them, and put his own fingers against the glass too. A small smile flickered across Stevie's worn face, and Marcel wondered if they were both thinking about what a cliche this was...neither of them said it though. "It's funny, isn't it..." Stevie said quietly. "Who would've thought that after everything, Ace would turn out to be the most honourable one of us scumbags."

Marcel frowned. "How, exactly?"

"He saved you,"

"Sure, so we could run away together like a pair of star-crossed lovers. And when that didn't work out, he tried to take me hostage at gunpoint. Again. I'm grateful for what he did—truly grateful...but it doesn't exactly make him honourable,"

Stevie lowered his eyes, and Marcel could see his fingers tensing on the glass. "I should have tried to save you...I should have tried to save—" He shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Marcel. So sorry."

Marcel gave him a rueful smile. "Me too, Stevie."

* * *

><p>When Marcel got back home, he realized the full extent of what he'd done.<p>

He'd known that going to see Stevie was wrong, and he'd known he was going to get in trouble. But it wasn't until he'd gotten home to find a squad car in his driveway that it hit him what he'd just put his father through.

For three solid hours, Marcel had been gone, and Marcel's father once again had had no idea where he was. He'd called all of his friends, he'd called Pete, and then he'd called Captain Rogers.

To say that his father had been angry would have been an understatement. He was livid, he was distraught...he'd been through three hours of hell and it seemed his intention was to take Marcel back around with him.

He yelled for hours. He threatened to lock Marcel up in his room and never let him out, ever again. And Marcel felt so awful, he would have let him.

But of course, it wasn't just his father he'd given a heart attack too. Everyone his Dad had called also got a turn to lecture or scream at him as well.

While his friends and father had chosen the "angry" approach to dealing with what he'd done, Pete came at him from the "I'm very disappointed in you," angle. It stung.

For a week, the only time he'd been allowed to leave the house was to have therapy sessions with Pete. His father would drive him, sit in main room and wait for him to be done, then drive him back home.

Marcel had been expecting that treatment to last a lot longer—he certainly deserved it—but it appeared that one week was the longest Marcel's father was capable of locking him up for. The week after, his Dad had allowed him to visit with Michael for a brief two hour period. He was dropping him off at Michael's door, and coming back for him in exactly 120 minutes.

Marcel had expected that most of that time would be spent with Michael yelling at him, or lecturing him, or a combination of the two. Instead he'd found himself furiously rolling around on the bed with him, fumbling with the button on Michael's jeans as Michael desperately tried to get Marcel's shirt off without breaking their embrace.

They'd slowed down once their clothes had been shed, both of them gasping into long kisses, their hands raking at each other's bodies. "I love you, so much Mars," Michael mumbled, his face buried in Marcel's collar bone. Marcel nodded quickly, incapable of speaking beyond moaning Michael's name, which he did over and over again until they'd finished.

Never of them said anything afterwards, even though they both had a lot to say. Michael's chest, which had been hidden from him for so long, was covered with scars and faded remnants of bruises and scrapes. Was that the reason he hadn't seen it until now? Marcel assumed they were the result of years of fighting, but there were so many..._how _had he gotten them all?

Marcel knew Michael must of have had a few questions about his own scars. The one on his collar bone he'd caught glimpses of before, but now he could see how far down it extended. His back was covered in small nicks and scrapes, not to mention the cut above his navel and the two on his inner thighs.

They would talk about it later, but just then they'd said nothing. Just then, their scars hadn't mattered, not how they'd gotten them nor the people that given them to them. None of it mattered then, not the medication or the bin or the panic attacks...not the ways they'd been hurt or the ways they'd hurt others. None of that had ever happened, in that moment. They weren't former mental patients, or trauma survivors they were just...Marcel and Michael. They'd met and fallen in love, and then they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms.

Back in the present—because if you're keeping up, that was a flashback—Marcel had finally fallen asleep, once again with Michael's arms around him. The dinner with Michael's father had been stressful, and in the future Marcel knew that there was going to be a lot of stress to come where Max Eisenberg was concerned. But he would be there for Michael as much as it was humanly possible to be there for another person, and somehow they would get through it together.

No matter what happened, what trouble Michael's father caused or new stress they had to deal with, Michael and Marcel would both get through it. So long as, at end of their long, exhausting day they could collapse in one of their beds, and fall asleep in each other's arms.

And that was all that mattered.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Has anyone on here ever seen the show Just For Laughs: Gags? Don't bother, it's dumb. But after each episode, this small green monster comes out (he's like the shows mascot) and cries "Mommy! It's oovvveerrr!" **

**I feel like that was relevant right now. **

**On the bright side, part one of the _other _Marcel/Michael fic is up on (a link to my account over there in on my profile). It's called "Concerning Flannel Shirts and Post-Modern Fairytales" because I love long titles. It has no relation to this story, except for the characters of course. I wanted to look at who Marcel and Michael were, without all the trauma I heaped on them. Part two should be up soon. **

**I also have a "bonus chapter" for this, with some deleted scenes and trivia. That'll be up tomorrow. **

**To my knowledge, Columbus does not have a Federal Detention Centre. I spent an hour researching prisons, then said "fuck it" and made one up.**

**Anyways, that's all. I'm having a hard week so if have any of you have anything nice you wanna say in a review, I'd very much encourage it. What can I say, reviews are like flannel to me. **


	23. Bonus Chapter: Deleted Scenes and Trivia

**Trivia:**

Marcel's full name is Marcel Wallace, which is a reference to Marcellus Wallace from the movie Pulp Fiction. If anyone had any doubt about what an awful person I am, this should clear it up.

It's mentioned in Recovery that Marcel doesn't like Pulp Fiction.

_"They are too. I mean they're not the same exactly, but it's the same ballpark-"  
><em>

_"'Ain't no fucking ballpark, neither'." Paige and Micheal-the-human-couch quoted at the same time.  
><em>

_"Exactly." Marcel said, not catching the quote. He'd expressed distaste for Pulp Fiction on more then once occasion. "They're completely different."_

Marcel is really really mad at me for his name.

Marcel's preferred word for "gay," "queerfag" is based on a life long misunderstanding. He hears his father say "queerfag" and assumes it's all one word. What his father was really saying was "Goddamned queer fags," queer being the adjective and fag being the noun.

In the chapter "Reunion," Michael and Marcel watch a french movie about a whiny gay kid who hates his mother. Marcel compares himself to the kid (his mother left him and he fought with his father, which is the reverse of what the happened in the movie). The movie they're watching is "J'ai tué ma Mère" (I killed my mother), and the main character Marcel relates to is played by Xavier Dolan. Xavier Dolan is the actor I chose as a face reference for Marcel (though he has an ability to grow facial hair that evades Marcel. Marcel is also shorter and skinnier). Marcel and Michael are watching a movie starring Marcel.

Marcel spends as little time as possible in his own room, stating that he doesn't like it, particularly the powder blue colour of his walls. Powder blue is the colour of Jack's eyes.

In the chapter "Can't Take you Away from Me," Tiffany listens to "Little voice in my head" by Hillary Duff. This is an example of my awful sense of humour, because Tiffany is schizophrenic, and does in fact hear voices in her head.

In "Ace of Hearts" (which is my favourite chapter title), when Michael's nose is bleeding, Marcel takes off the flannel shirt he's wearing to stop the bleeding. I think it goes to show how much Marcel really loves Michael, that he didn't even give ruining a flannel shirt for him a second thought.

The officer in charge of Marcel's case, Captain Anthony Rogers, is a reference to one of my OTP's, Steve Rogers and Tony Stark (aka Captain America and Iron Man).

The company Michael's Dad works for is called "Madrox&Miller," which is a another reference to one of my OTP's, Jamie Madrox and Layla Miller (I know, a straight ship. Crazy right?)

In the very first chapter, "Marcel," Marcel mentions "He'd read a book once where a guy had been forced into giving a blow job he didn't want to give. The guy'd said after the fact that it wasn't horrible, but it wasn't love." This quote is from the Chuck Palahnuik book "Invisible Monsters," which Marcel later tells Michael he's read 16 times.

Michael and Marcel compare themselves to Gordie and Chris from "Stand By Me." The villain in that movie's name was "Ace," too.

Michael names his fish after Justin and Brian from Queer as Folk. The Justin Fish follows the Brian Fish around the pond, very similar to real Justin in the First Season.

**Deleted Scenes:**

**Marcel, Deleted Scene Number 1: **

_I was planning on having another scene following the one where Marcel and Michael were outside, but when I decided to end it there I re-wrote the ending of the scene. This was original ending. _

"Michael?" Marcel whispered, resting his forehead against Michael's. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah," Michael said.

Marcel squinted. "Why'd you come outside?"

Michael looked surprised at the question. "Oh...I dunno," He said, shrugging. "I mean, I guess I figured that with the TV busted, now was probably a good time to do it...start getting back into the world. Why?"

"No reason..." Marcel mumbled, squirming slightly. Michael raised his eyebrows at him, and Marcel bit down on his lip. "I just don't like it out here, is all. It's too...I don't know, it's too _out. _That's stupid, I know—"

"It's not," Michael reassured him. "It's not stupid. I know what you mean...how about five more minutes, and then we'll go in, alright?"

Marcel cringed. "_Five minutes? _But I mean...we've already been out here for like an hour! Isn't that enough? I think I'm getting a sun burn...my skin's not used to ultra violet light. It's sensitive..."

Michael tilted his head to the side. "It's been like 10 minutes, Mars." He said. "Unless you're a vampire, I don't think you've got a sun burn."

Marcel frowned. "...It's definitely been at least 15 minutes...at a minimum."

"I'll give you 12 minutes and 35 seconds."

"Even 13 and we've got a deal."

Michael laughed and shook his head, and Marcel smiled a little. "Alright, we've been talking for an even 13 minutes. And another _four _won't kill you."

"You don't know that..." Marcel mumbled. "There could be a hurricane, or a twister. The trees could start releasing a deadly toxin into the air that makes us kill ourselves...a jet engine from a tangent dimension could fall and crush us to death..." *

Michael put a hand on Marcel's cheek. "This is exactly why we need to get outside, and away from TV."

* * *

><p>AN: Trees that make you kill yourself—The Happening (I'd say sorry for spoiling it, but if you haven't seen it I just saved you two hours). Jet engine from a tangent dimension—Donnie Darko.

* * *

><p><strong>Marcel, deleted scene number 2<br>**

_I wrote this after watching several hours of American Horror Story. I didn't have any idea of where it would go, but I figured I'd find some place for it eventually. Obviously I never did. _

Marcel lay on his side, staring at the wall across from his bed. He was tired; tired of crying, tired of hating himself, tired of the confusion and the anger. He felt empty. Used. Like he'd been sucked dry and all that was left was shrivelled skin, clinging to his battered bone.

"Do you think some people were asking for it?" Marcel said quietly.

Michael lifted his head up, and looked down at him. He was lying with his chest pressed against Marcel's back, his arms wrapped protectively around his middle. He rested his chin on Marcel's shoulder. "What?"

"To be raped, I mean." Marcel clarified, his voice still barely above a whisper. "Do you think some people were asking for it?"

"No." Michael said, lying his head back down against the pillow. He pulled Marcel closer to him, and gave him a tight squeeze. "They weren't."

Marcel was silent for a moment. "What about me? What if...what if I was."

"Why would you say that?"

"I...that night I got taken I...I was at a bar." He whispered. "I went to a bar alone and I was...I was _looking _for someone. To hook up with. So...so maybe..."

"Marcel, if you went to a bar alone looking to hook up with someone, do you know what you were asking for?" Michael asked. Marcel shook his head. "Someone to hook up with. Not someone to kidnap you, and rape you, and keep you chains for 6 months."

"I wasn't always in the chains..."

"That's not the point." Michael grumbled, burying his face into the back of Marcel's neck, and placing a few kisses along his nape. Marcel wrapped his own arms over Michael's, hugging them to his body as he thought about what he'd said.

Michael sighed. "Why is it only rape people ask that about?" He mumbled, furrowing his brow. "You never hear people say things like 'oh, she was asking to be mugged,' or 'he wanted to be beaten to death—look at the way he was dressed.'"

Marcel shrugged a little, not really sure what to say. It didn't matter though, as Michael continued a moment later.

"You know what, I'll tell you why." He said, his voice strengthening in a way that told Marcel this was going to be rant. "Because rape isn't like other crimes. It's not smashing someones head in with a baseball bat, or stealing all their money or their car. It's personal. It's intimate. And _that's _what makes it so scary. The idea that someone could use your own sexuality to hurt you—even the _thought _is so inconceivably terrifying that people refuse to acknowledge it."

Marcel wasn't sure if Michael was aware of how tight he was squeezing him, but he didn't care. He just didn't want him to stop. He shut his eyes tight, and listened to what he was saying, letting the pressure of his arms remind him that he was safe.

"That's why they say those things. How people were asking for it because of what they were wearing or how they were acting. It's one of those lies people tell themselves so they can sleep at night. Like, having an alarm system means you're protected from being robbed, or being a good person means bad things won't happen to you. People need to believe that people who got raped _did_ something to bring it on themselves, that they somehow _deserved it _or had it coming. They need to believe that so they can feel like if they _don't _do those things, they'll be safe. It won't happen to them. Because the idea that it _could—_" He shook his head. "Inconceivable. And that's why no one talks about it, too, because talking about it would mean accepting that it's something that happens, everyday. That it's a crime like all the others, that people have a right to know the truth about." Michael took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, his head buzzing as he finished.

"But telling the truth means you accept it yourself." Marcel whispered. "And that's too scary."

* * *

><p><strong>Marcel, deleted scene number 3<strong>

_This is the scene I was planning having happen after the one where they're outside. I decided it was too fast for this conversation, so just assume it now takes place about a week or so after the stories conclusion. _

Marcel put his hands on Michael's shoulder. "Michael," He whispered, shaking him. "Michael. Michael wake up. Wake up, wake up!"

Michael groaned and swatted at him in his sleep, and Marcel sat back on his knees, kneeling next to Michael on the bed. "Are you awake yet?"

"_No," _Michael moaned, his hand still swatting around—it landed on Marcel's face, and then moved down to cover his mouth. "Now shhh..." Michael mumbled, going back to sleep. A moment later he yelped and pulled his hand away, his eyes snapping open violently. "You licked me!"

Marcel smiled. "A little."

Michael glowered at him. "That's gross."

Marcel rolled his eyes. "You realize that given the option, there's several other places on your body I would gladly lick, right? Your _hand _is nothing. I mean, really."

Michael was silent, and Marcel thought he could see him blushing in the dark.

"So why are you in here?" Michael asked after a moment.

"I had something to tell you," Marcel said, leaning forward eagerly. Michael gave him an expectant look and Marcel took a deep breath. "I lost my virginity to my friend Shane,"

Marcel furrowed his brow. "Uh, okay..."

"No I'm not done!" Marcel exclaimed. "Just wait. Alright...so I lost my virginity to my friend Shane, but I don't remember it because I was drunk. For the last two months Lina and I have been fooling around in one of the group therapy rooms—we'd like make out and she'd give me a hand-job. I thought it was helping me but I don't think so now, and it wasn't fair to her or you so two weeks ago I told her we should stop and we haven't done anything since then. Last month Finn had two visitors and I made one of them throw me around so I could try and get off on it, and it made him cry. I still feel awful about it. I have Stockholms Syndrome, and I didn't want to admit but I do and it makes me too angry to articulate. For a long, long time I hoped that they were out there looking for me, and I wanted them to find me and take me away so things could be like they used to. Even when I stopped wanting them to take me away, I still wanted them to find me. I kept that too myself at first because I thought no one would understand, but then I continued to keep it to myself because I was ashamed and disgusted. I told Kurt about it, and he told me he used to miss Finn too, and it made me feel better. And he kissed me but it was really fast and no tongue or anything so I don't think it counts. I know I bitch and moan about it, but I'm really glad you keep saying no to me, because Pete says I use sex to avoid dealing with my problems and I don't want it to be like that when we do it. I want it to be special and perfect and romantic and if that means we have to wait like a year, or two years or whatever so I can get my head back on straight, then that's what I want to do. I'm going to change my mind a lot during that time and probably act like a little shit but I know you'll always do the right thing and make me wait because you know it's right, and I love that about you. I love that I can trust you with the things I can't even trust myself with. I love you, and I love that I love you, because it's scary but it's good. It's really, really good." Marcel took a deep breath, coming to the end of his speech. "I love you."

Michael blinked a few times, looking stunned. "Oh," He said. He gave him a shaky smile. "I love you too, Mars."

Marcel smiled, relieved and a little exhausted from the marathon confession. He leaned in and wrapped his arms around Michael's shoulders, curling up at his side. "Good," He said.

Michael wrapped an arm over Marcel, still processing everything he'd just been told. "Is that everything?" He asked quietly.

Marcel gave a few short nods of his head. "Everything I can currently think of...if something else surfaces, I'll add it to the list."

Micheal nodded slowly. "Alright..." He said. "But you know, you didn't have to spill everything out like this. I was okay with waiting."

Marcel shrugged, nuzzling against Michael's shoulder. "I know, but I suddenly felt like it telling you everything and I thought I should go with it. Just get it out, you know? No more lies, or secrets."

Michael nodded again. "For the record, I kinda figured about you and Lina...but you ended it?" Marcel nodded vigourously. "Oh...I'm glad, I guess. I mean, I know I say I don't care about that stuff—and I don't, really—I just...I'm glad."

Marcel raised his head a little and looked at him. "Michael, you're allowed to be glad that I stopped fooling around with someone else. That's really within your rights."

Michael paused, and then added "I knew about Finn's friends, and you making that one guy cry and stuff. Finn told me like the day after it happened."

Marcel frowned. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I dunno," Michael said with a shrug. "I figured you probably felt shitty enough about it, you didn't need me making it worse. Plus things with us were kinda weird then, and then when we made up or whatever, I guess I was just so happy that things were okay again that it didn't seem to matter."

"I'm sorry," Marcel mumbled, lying back down in Michael's arms.

"Good...if those guys ever come back here, you can apologize to them. I'm sure they'll forgive you, just make that puppy dog face you're really good at."

Marcel stuck out his lower lip. "What puppy dog face?" He asked, looking at Michael from under his lashes. Michael gave him a look, and Marcel grinned. "Joking."

Michael rolled his eyes, and snuggled Marcel in his arms. "How long you think we have before Sheila comes in and pulls you out?" He asked, yawning and closing his eyes.

Marcel closed his eyes too, getting comfortable against Michael's chest. "S'fine," He mumbled. "I left her a note."

Michael snorted. "Yeah, that'll go over well..."

They were both quiet for a few minutes, and Marcel began to drift off to sleep, idly wondering how it was that Michael always smelt so good. Like he just came out of the dryer, warm and fresh smelling...Marcel smiled to himself, strangely amused by the thought of Michael tumbling around in a dryer. Dryer fresh boyfriend...heh...

"Mars?" Michael whispered, his voice tugging Marcel out of his dreamy thoughts.

"Mmm?"

"I'm really glad you stayed. Really glad."

Marcel smiled again, and pressed his lips against Michael's chest. "Yeah," He mumbled, giving Michael a tight squeeze. "Yeah, me too."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well, that's officially all for this universe.**


End file.
